The Show Must Go On
by scarlettshazam
Summary: Kenny is a rentboy living a nightmare. Butters returns to South Park to take care of his mother. Their worlds collide and chaos ensues. Bunny.
1. Tease the Crowd, Please the Crowd

**THIS IS A TRIGGER WARNING FOR THE ENTIRE FIC: The whole thing will contain themes of drug use, prostitution, gore and abuse. I will trigger warning specific chapters if there is anything worse within it. **

**Chapter Track: Stripper – Sohodolls **

This town has changed since they were kids. Kenny could pinpoint exactly when it happened. Some world famous Eastern European model and her foreign-film actor husband stumbled upon South Park, Colorado when their car broke down just outside of it. They'd gotten themselves lost looking for their fancy damned ski resort. Kenny doesn't know how you can possibly _get_ that lost, but they could, and they did. And in his opinion, it fucked with everything.

When he was thirteen years old, said model and actor had an incredible house built on the side of the mountain – not _in_ South Park, but close enough that it counted to the rest of the world.

Just like that, people flocked to South Park. There were new, big houses. New restaurants. New roads. There were new kids at his school, new rules to follow. New everything. The tiny, veritable village transformed. It still isn't a city – no, not even close. It didn't have time to reach that point in its growth before the economy crashed and everything went to shit. But it's a town. A bustling, well-populated town. But it's not so bright anymore.

So, once upon a time, South Park had had some glory days when the new people started arriving. Business had been booming, the economy was great, tourists had been at an all-time hell. Hell, Kenny had never been making so much money in his life. He'd been maybe fifteen and selling fake IDs and pot to the other kids at school. It was the life.

It went bad, though, real bad.

Wrong.

_Real _wrong.

Kenny got into a sticky place in his life. He hadn't graduated high school. He'd started snorting lines with the rich kids, or hitting the crack pipe with the poor kids, instead. See – with the new people had come new and fascinating ways for Kenny to die, and new and fascinating ways for nobody to remember a damned thing happening.

So he would die, as per usual, and return a few days later at most, but usually a couple hours later. People thought he disappeared to get high anyway – they thought Kenny McCormick was an irresponsible ne'er-do-well, that _one_ kid, the one you see and don't want your kid to hang out with, for fear they'll be snorting coke in a matter of minutes. He'll never forget the day that Kyle had told him that he thought his mom was right about Kenny. Sheila Broflovski had related a lot of cruel gossip relating to the McCormick family over the years, and as long as her son didn't believe her words, Kenny was fine. But Kyle listened to his mom after awhile like the good son that he was. And where Kyle goes, Stan follows. Kenny was friendless.

The dying had stopped for a time, just before all those people came to his town.

But when it resumed, it resumed with a vengeance. He died daily in every way imaginable.

Suddenly, smoking bud wasn't doing jack shit anymore. So he went deeper,

And deeper,

And deeper,

Until he wasn't at school anymore. He was some dumb twenty-year-old kid too coked up to know shit about what he was doing. He'd been long since kicked out of his parents' house – he'd been seventeen, maybe? They caught him blowing some dude for a wad of cash. _Which, _by the way, he never got. He remembered his mom crying and how his brother punched him, how his dad physically threw him out onto the doorstep, declaring he 'didn't want no homos around _his_ family.' The worst of it, though, was probably how Karen had followed him and hugged him, telling Kenny that she still loved him.

And by that point, nobody in the entire town wanted him around. He knew that. He didn't even bother going to the guys that used to be his friends. They were about to graduate from high school, about to go off into the world and discover life beyond this poor-ass town. They were going to do something that Kenny never could.

They would escape.

He wandered around the streets after that. Everybody knew that he was homeless, though nobody ever did anything about it. There were random acts of kindness from time to time, sure. He thinks he can remember Wendy Testaburger wrapping a blanket around his shoulders one time, but he was so high, it could have been Jesus Christ himself and Kenny wouldn't have known. Tweek would sometimes bring him coffee. He wouldn't actually approach Kenny, mind – he would leave a to-go cup of Tweak Bros approximately ten feet away and run for his life. People threw quarters and crumpled one dollar bills at his feet and he took them, passing them onto his dealer in exchange for more product.

He got in deep with his dealer. Deep, deep in debt.

The guy had gone easy on him in the beginning, he'd let Kenny have whatever for a romp in the sack. Kenny was, and is, damned good at fucking. He'd been in practice since he was thirteen. With that much training under your belt, you're bound to get good at it. And he's attractive. He knows he is. Although, at that time, he'd probably been a lot less so. But living on the streets, he didn't have a mirror to check up in. He was too high to care, in any case.

Shit started happening when Kenny stopped being attractive enough, when he lost his charm, his glitz, whatever had made him who he was. He died a lot. He died painfully. Sick bastards thought watching him in pain was funny. Usually when they'd fucked around with Kenny, he was drugged up and didn't quite understand what was happening to him, just that it hurt _a lot_ and he wanted it to stop. By some cruel trick of fate, he'd always end up in Hell fully sober, and knowing exactly what had gone down.

_They forced you to have sex, Kenny._

_They pulled off your fingernails one by one, Kenny._

_They cut off all the fingers on your right hand, Kenny._

It was nasty business, and most of the shit his dealer and lackeys did happened more than once. Because, although they enjoyed being creative, if Kenny died, they wouldn't remember what fun bit of torture they'd done that resulted in his death in the first place. He bled out a lot. There wasn't much mercy with those people. He advises to this day to not go near those psychos. The high isn't even worth what they'll do if you run out of money.

So when an opportunity to get out of this hole arose, he took it.

Maybe it should have mattered that the person offering this opportunity was Eric Cartman. It definitely mattered now, anyway. But at the time, Kenny was just grateful that he had been saved.

And…it sort of fixed some things. Kenny doesn't die every day now. He doesn't even die every week. He has his own apartment. It's a shitty little place with all of one window, but it's better than cold as fuck pavement and his ratty old coat. The stove even works, unlike the stove that occupied his childhood home. Not that you could call what he lived as a child 'a childhood.'

He even comes home to a dog with a wagging tail at the end of the night (or at the beginning of the morning, depending which angle you chose to look at it from). Sure, she's missing an eye and scared by any noises louder than popping popcorn, but she's his and that's what's important.

Eric Cartman has paid off his drug debts, down to the last penny.

There was a shit ton of money involved.

Cartman essentially owns him, now.

Kenny mostly doesn't mind. All he does is work at the club that Cartman inherited from his mother upon her death three years before he picked Kenny up off of the streets. Kenny had been too drugged out at the time of Liane's death to have known that it had happened, and he wonders why he never sees her in Hell when he dies. He liked Liane. She had been an attractive and industrious lady, and she'd taught Kenny the literal tricks of the trade when he was around sixteen or so. The stuff she'd taught him continues to come in handy to this day.

Liane worked her way up, all the way up to owning her own strip joint. It was a sort of combination strip joint/bordello/jazz club/shitty theatre now, under Cartman's thumb. Cartman turned the place weird. But hey, he could be doing worse than working a club at night. All Kenny has to do is wear leather pants and put himself on display, really, until Cartman tells him who he is fucking or is going to be fucked by. And that's okay. It's what Kenny's good at, and he knows it. Sex.

The other part of his job is admittedly strange. Cartman likes putting on half-assed shows and musicals for prospective customers. That suits Kenny and the girls just fine, most of the people employed at Polly (Kenny has the disturbing feeling that Cartman renamed the club after the doll he had as a child and shot in the head) are washed-up wannabe actors or singers. Artsy people. A lot of ex-Raisins girls, too. The South Park strip joint theatre has become somewhat of a roadside oddity. You might be surprised how many people enjoy watching their favorite plays and musicals being performed while the actors wear next to nothing. The shows, of course, are during the week. Gotta stay dirty on the weekends.

So, he's a fulltime rentboy and shitty actor, or something like that. Kenny likes the singing part that he sometimes has to do. He's always been good at singing, has always secretly enjoyed those five minutes of cold shower when he gets to belt out whatever's on his mind to a random melody.

His life…isn't bad.

He's come to the understanding that as an adult, there are responsibilities to take care of. Rent, keeping your nose out of trouble, feeding yourself and your dog. That's Kenny's list. Maybe one day that list will be bigger. Maybe one day it'll be more exciting.

Maybe one day, he'll escape.

But he doesn't count on it.

**o.o.o.o**

There are downfalls and benefits to working at Polly during the winter. The benefit is that leather pants are actually kind of warm, and his are waterproof, which is convenient for the amount of snowfall that they get up in the mountains. The downfall is that he's not allowed to wear a fucking shirt at the club, and because Kenny is lazy, he often opts not to wear one at all under his thick coat.

It's actually pretty cold to be wearing a bulky winter coat with nothing underneath, believe it or not. The silky lining gets all cool from the wind making its way inside. It's why Kenny typically goes for a coffee before he heads to work, why that's exactly what he's doing right now.

Sometimes he tells himself that he should just bother with something as simple as putting on a shirt, but when he's not working, he's sleeping, or scratching lotto tickets. He sleeps all day, wakes up at the last possible minute to head to work. He's always in a hurry at this time of night.

Kenny doesn't even have to voice his order to Tweek when he reaches the register at Tweak Bros. Tweek knows it by heart, not that Kenny's usual is some long-ass nonfat half-foam two-flavored with whip thing. All he gets is a medium Americano, something strong to get him through the night, and keep him warm on the walk to Polly.

Tweek and Kenny have this strange unspoken bond. Maybe it originated from the cups of coffee that Tweek always left for Kenny all those years ago, or maybe it's because Kenny's the only one that knows about the fact that Tweek had been sleeping with Craig for years before Craig ditched South Park in favor of "finding himself," or some mundane shit like that. Whatever it is, they know some of each other's more unfavorable secrets, and there's a silent vow that neither of them will tell.

Kenny likes Tweek. He likes Tweek because he's one of the only kids that stayed in South Park and holds down a job that is completely unrelated to Eric fucking Cartman. Eric owns this town, it seems like. A lot of people that can't find work find it at Polly. For a price – usually their freedom, like Kenny. Kenny swears he can't even breathe the wrong way without Cartman knowing. He's constantly being watched by Cartman's various men. He can always tell who those men are, too. He gets this prickle in the back of his neck, the one that says _you're being watched_, and he knows at that moment that he has to be on his best behavior.

Kenny wonders if Cartman has people tailing all of the working folk at Polly, or just him. Probably just him. Kenny thinks it's some fucked up combination of Cartman feeling like Kenny is still his friend (if they ever were friends), and the fact that his ass belongs to Cartman, now.

He feels that prickle now, as Tweek hands him hit hot cup of coffee.

"Thanks, man," Kenny says gruffly.

Tweek doesn't reply. He doesn't actually talk much, anymore. Not after all his friends left. Kenny gets that. His friends are gone. At least, the old ones that he had up until he started using. Kyle went to some fancy university off east, and last he heard, Stan is living in California with Wendy. They're engaged or some stupid shit.

Kenny would probably off himself before agreeing to marry somebody. Not that such a threat is particularly viable coming from him, or that Cartman would allow Kenny to get into the position in his life when marrying somebody would sound appealing.

Kenny's friends now are much different. He isn't even sure that he'd name them friends. They're more like…_allies. _South Park has become their battlefield, and frankly, Kenny isn't even sure who the enemy is. It's all ambiguous. There's no black and white.

It's actually, deep down, a little frightening to him.

Like he said, he's got Tweek.

He's got Bebe. Bebe's probably the best friend he's got anymore. Being the bartender at Polly, she's adept at kicking asses. Cartman has hired muscle hanging all around the club, but Bebe's the only one that's ever checked on him _after _he's taken a client upstairs, to the less legal area of his workplace. Fortunately for Cartman's bank account, the cops are tucked safely in his fat pocket. It never fails to impress Kenny what wealth can do, the kind of wealth that he'll never have.

Other than that, he's got the girls on his side. There's Mercedes and Portia, and Sally Darson.

And he thinks – the operative word being _thinks_ – that he's got Kevin Stoley. Stoley works the accounts for the club in a tiny office in the back. The guy has what it takes to get out of South Park, but for whatever reason, sticks here with the rest of the losers that didn't make their escapes. For the most part, Stoley sticks to the status quo – meaning Cartman – but Kenny thinks that somewhere in there, there's got to be a human being, instead of an accounting robot.

Some days are rougher than others. Sometimes the important person that's purchased Kenny's services for the night just wants get off, and then they'll leave. Other times, they're into weird-ass shit, things that at one point would have made Kenny uncomfortable, but now are things he has to do if he wants to continue living his reasonably okay life. It's not good, but it could always be worse. He's been much worse. Compared to bleeding out in the middle of an abandoned warehouse from gunshots all down his legs and in his knees, this isn't half-bad.

The bell at the front door of Tweak Bros tinkles as he exits with coffee in hand, avoiding the stares of the people that know who he is. He seldom feels embarrassment, but one thing never fails to mortify him – his friends' parents looking at him. They _know_ what he does. They know what happened to him. South Park may not be tiny anymore, but shit still gets around. Especially when it's juicy gossip about rentboy druggie Kenny McCormick.

Not that he does much in the way of drugs, anymore. He can't stomach the shit, not when he remembers what it made him do. And fortunately for Kenny, every time he dies, he gets a new body, with new everything except for memories. He doesn't have an addiction in his current body. He doesn't have any of the shit he's gotten over the years, shit he doesn't want to think about, because it's all so fucking humiliating.

He feels the tingle on the back of his neck, the one that tells him that Cartman's watching him. It makes him speed up his walking pace, even though he knows that he won't be late. Being followed makes his hair stand on end. It's the one thing that he'll argue about with Cartman. Everything else is fair game, but having Kenny followed? It reminds him too much of the drugged-out homeless days, when he was always paranoid and fucking certain that every person that passed by him on the street was out to get him.

Kenny loathes those arguments, because Cartman always tells him that he's full of shit.

_You're being paranoid, you poor asshole. Must be an aftereffect of all those drugs_, Cartman always says this so smugly, rubbing Kenny's failure as a human being in his nose, like he always does when he gets the chance. Nevermind the fact that Kenny hasn't done lines or smoked crack in almost five years now. He sticks to weed these days, and even then, he only falls back on smoking bud when he's had a bad client – one that made him do something totally not in his comfort zone, or maybe one that beat the living shit out him. Usually he can hold his own, but there's the occasional client whose rage is so all-consuming that they're blind to Kenny, that they can't feel it when he fights back, and won't stop when the fists start flying. Typically this a guy that hates his wife with a vengeance, probably because of his repressed sexuality that he goes to brothels to take care of. Assholes.

The mere thought of those pricks sets Kenny's teeth on edge. He frowns deeply, nurses a bit of his coffee, and fishes a mostly flattened pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. Kenny sticks one of the half-finished cigarettes that he stuck back in the box in between his lips and lights it, dragging in gratefully.

Fuck, he's got to remember not to think of all the shit things that _could_ happen, and try and be positive…or something stupid like that. He could have one of those nice, shy guys looking for nothing more than a good time with an experienced fucker like himself.

_Yeah right._

That's just wishful thinking. He knows that. There's like, one nice dude to every thirty dirty, heavy-handed pricks. And that's a generous estimate, that one. Kenny's the only male on staff.

Sometimes Kenny wonders if that's why Cartman pulled him out of his rut. You know, so he could have a male stripper or prostitute or whatever he was called (Depended on the night, quite frankly) for hire. There are a lot of repressed people in South Park, after all. Especially after the economy went bad and the fancy little European model and her husband had a messy divorce, abandoning the town filled with people there just to follow the fame around. You're probably a sad sack of shit if you moved to a crappy tiny place in the middle of nowhere just to see if you could catch a glimpse of somebody famous, anyhow.

When Kenny spots the red and golden-yellow neon lights of Polly over the crest of the hill, he takes a final drag of his cigarette and crushes it underneath his boot. He tugs the hood of his winter coat up over his face, but it doesn't do much good to hide his identity as he walks around the line of randy teenagers with fake IDs and middle-aged losers. There's only one guy that would walk around to the back of Polly in leather pants, and that would be him. There are a couple of wolf whistles, a couple of crude shouts, a few insults (not everybody in rural Colorado is happy to have a male stripper 'invade' their club, but fuck those guys).

Fucking hell, he hates Friday nights, and from the looks of it, this is going to be a busy one.

It's one of those nights in which he'd like to shout at those guys outside. Yell at them, hold both middle fingers up and scream, _I'm just a normal guy going to work, you stupid fucks. I've even got a goddamned cup of coffee in my hand. _

Just another day at the office. All that Kenny's missing is a suit.

Kenny is greeted with a chorus of hellos when he slams the door to the dressing room behind him. He kind of wishes that he could have his own dressing room. It's funny – before everything in his life went to shit, he'd have been ecstatic over the prospect of sharing a changing room with a bunch of fairly attractive women in varying states of undress and sparkly things, but now, he just feels like the guys outside should. Like total a douche.

C'est la vie.

"Looks like a pretty bad crowd," remarks Mercedes.

Kenny thinks that she's talking to him, but he doesn't want to have to acknowledge how awful those people look. Mostly they get the same crowd night after night – despite the growth of South Park's population in the last decade or so, it's still a relatively small town. However, Polly's the only strip joint for miles and miles. They get the dirty fucks from all over Park Country. North Park, Middle Park, Buena Vista – truckers passing by on the highway. The works.

"Sweetie, we gotta be positive," says one of the other girls. Kenny can't tell which one.

He doesn't blame Mercedes for not being positive. Last year, she stabbed one of her clients with a nail file. Cartman was _pissed. _The guy ended up at Hell's Pass dead on arrival, and Kenny knew that between Cartman and the police department, the cover up was enormous and hellishly painstaking. Can't bring those truckers in if those guys think they might get stabbed.

At least when somebody takes out their rage on Kenny, he knows that if he dies, he'll be back in at most, a couple days. The girls don't have that luxury. Not that he'd name it a luxury, even. Sometimes he wishes that one of his johns would off him. Permanently. Chilling with Satan is hardly the worst fate he could suffer for the rest of eternity.

He feels kind of guilty for thinking that. His dog would probably miss him, and who would take care of a one-eyed old pitbull named Esther if he died for real?

Kenny sheds his coat and hangs it in his locker. Awhile ago, the girls tried to brighten up the dressing room by adding stickers with everybody's names onto their lockers. His says 'Kenny' in silver lettering surrounded by gold stars, all of which are peeling, now.

He turns to give Mercedes some routine words of encouragement, when the door bursts open.

"Ah, hey Boss," greets Portia, from where she's applying blush to her cheeks in front of the illuminated mirror.

Cartman ignores her.

Kenny stares out of the corner of his eye. The fat fuck loves to put his wealth on display. He's in some designer suit, a set of novelty cufflinks from his collection at the cuffs. These ones are shaped like eagles, and look like they're solid gold, matching the glinting chain around his neck. What a dick.

"You," he points a well-manicured finger in Kenny's face and grunts, "My office. Now."

Kenny resists the urge to ask 'What the hell did I do this time?' and sighs quietly, following Cartman from the overheated dressing room and down the short back hallway of the club.

If there's one thing he hates more than the extravagant way that Cartman dresses, it's the presumptuous décor of his office. Beyond the hardwood floors, paneled walls and enormous portrait of Cartman and his mother hanging on the wall, he sits in a high-backed, velvet-upholstered armchair, like something out of a villain's lair in a bad movie. But Cartman loves it. The stupid fuck is at home among this _excess. _Kenny has never been able to stand people that live as profligately as this. Every time he looks at Cartman's stupid-ass expensive chair, he thinks how many families could have been fed with how much money it cost. The same question applies to essentially everything that Cartman owns – his cufflink collection, the box of Cuban cigars that Kenny knows is sitting in the top right hand drawer on the mahogany desk.

"Take a seat," Cartman says, indicating with a sweeping gesture to the two much smaller armchairs that sit before his desk.

Kenny obeys, silently.

"You're going to be on your best behavior tonight, McCormick," Cartman says, "I've got a big client coming in. He's offering me a lot of money for a night with you, so I want you to treat him like a damn king."

"Yeah, okay," Kenny says. Same old, same old. Cartman says this every time he calls Kenny in here.

"I'm fucking serious, poor boy!" he exclaims (Kenny is _beyond_ irritated that Cartman has never relinquished that moniker, in spite of the truth of it), "This one tells me that if he likes your work, he's gonna come back for more. I'll give you a bonus if he does. He'll be your little Sugar Daddy, Kinny."

Kenny tries not to look too interested. He's been saving up for years, but with the shit money he makes working this job, and the cost of his rent and food and just _living_, he's only been able to put away money a very little bit at a time. This could be his big break. He asks tentatively, "Who is he?"

An evil little smirk appears on Cartman's face, and he replies, voice sickly sweet, "I want it to be a surprise. I'll point him out on the floor tonight."

"That's fucking stupid, Cartman," Kenny deadpans, scowling.

"Ey!" Cartman protests, "I _own_ you. I do what I want. I'll point him out to you before 'Bunny Club,' and I want you to give him a nice dance, okay?"

"Fine," Kenny agrees. He doesn't want to be in here anymore. This office feels suffocating to him, regardless of how spacious it is in actuality. It just reminds him that he's some sort of prisoner. Plus, judging by the hands of the grandfather clock in the corner, Kenny barely has ten minutes to put eyeliner on his face and muss his hair to look all pretty. Looks matter in this business – you don't just get to slap on a pair of leather pants and call it a goddamned day.

"I mean it, Kinny," Cartman says. His voice lowers to a dangerous hiss, indicating that Cartman's anger is real, not his typical surliness that Kenny's subjected to day by day, "If you fuck this up, I will fuck you over. Hard. I let you get away with a being a smartass because you make me money, poor boy. If you cost me this deal, you're done for."

"Got it," Kenny says tiredly, but without the sass. He knows he pushes Cartman's limits with his sarcasm. Usually it's amusing, but tonight his ass appears to be on the line.

"'Got it,' what?"

"Got it, _boss_," Kenny says, forcing the irritability down and away from his voice.

With that, Cartman gives Kenny a curt nod, indicating that he's free to leave.

Kenny climbs to his feet with the grim knowledge that this is going to be one _hell_ of a night.


	2. No Sir, There is No Love Left in Here

**Chapter Track: Bunny Club – Polly Scattergood**

Kenny has barely over seven minutes to make himself look acceptably smoky-eyed and sex-ready. It makes him realize just how much of his job is an act. He has to look like he's begging to be fucked by every guy in this stupid club, when really, he'd rather just be back at his apartment, reading something out of his comic book collection or sitting on the couch with his dog, watching cartoons and eating takeout from City Wok. But a job's a job, he supposes, and he may as well do as damn good a job at it as he can.

More like – he _has to_ do as damn good a job at it as he can, or Cartman will have his balls in a vice.

Kenny has become a master at making himself look like a whore – and some days, he has to remind himself that technically, that is what he is. He doesn't like to think of himself that way, though, even if his body is a fucking commodity, a rentable vessel that you can use the fuck out of for a night without interruption.

It's one of those things that he doesn't think many people understand. Sex work, he means. It's real fucking work. And seriously, he wouldn't be doing it if he had another option, but at the moment, it's best that he's got. That doesn't make him any less of a human being, but somehow, everybody else thinks that it does. By the people in South Park that know what he does for a living (which is essentially everybody, except for those that are too naïve or oblivious to realize), he's just treated as _less_, not whole, like his occupation suddenly makes him half-human. It's in the little things – the dirty looks when he's walking along the sidewalk, the disgusted noise from some conservative mother when he goes to buy cereal from the grocery store – these things indicate to him that people think he's just scum, that he's not worthy enough to be walking the same earth as they do.

They do it to everybody that works at Polly.

Well, everybody whose job at Polly is to take their clothes off, really.

Because of that, there's an unspoken bond between Kenny and the girls. The sort of bond you can only have with other people you know have been through what you have, that face the same stigma against folks just trying to make rent and feed themselves.

He likes to think that maybe one day, he won't be doing this anymore. It's always like that in his head. One day, someday, maybe, maybe, maybe. Perhaps someday people won't treat people like him and the girls like they're not real people, either. But that's a distant hope, and unlikely to ever be true, at least in his mind.

Kenny spares a glance at the tacky, kitschy wall clock (it's pretty ugly: shaped like a cat, with eyes and a tail that move back and forth with every tick-tock) mounted above the lockers in the dressing room. Two minutes until show time. Two minutes until he gets out there and puts on the next performance of his life. It's like that every night he works. The act must be even better than the last. Tonight especially – for this apparently important client. He unscrews the cap on a plastic jar of mousse and lathers it on his fingers, mussing his hair up into a just-had-sex style to match the makeup that gives him that lustful half-lidded look to his face, when in actuality, he feels precisely the opposite.

Mercedes rushes into the dressing room, just then. In one hand, she's holding a pair of sparkly red platform heels, one of which has the heel snapped and dangling from the sole. She gives Kenny a rushed smile as she yanks open her locker and selects a new pair of shoes, asking, "What did the prick want?" She is referring, of course, to none other than Cartman, who is indeed a prick.

"Apparently my ass is desired by some _very important client_," Kenny says dryly.

"Isn't it always?" she says. She tugs on a new pair of heels, these ones zebra-printed.

"Yeah, that's what I said," Kenny says, "but I swear, he was about to give me some of that pimp-hand bullshit. This _very important client_ –" if the dripping sarcasm in his voice isn't enough, Kenny uses air quotes to punctuate as well, "– might want…a consistent lover, I guess."

"You mean, Cartman found you a sugar daddy?" Mercedes brows lift high into her hair.

"Let's not call it that," Kenny says, because he doesn't want to think of it like that at all, no matter the truth of the phrase.

"This could be it for you, though," Mercedes says excitedly. As soon as she's got her other shoe on, she pulls Kenny into a hug and says, "You could get out of here! Maybe you could even go to school, or see the world, or –"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Kenny responds. He pats her back awkwardly. He doesn't really like being touched beyond what's necessary (i.e. when he's working, and even then, he doesn't like to be touched, he's simply more willing to tolerate it). She pulls away sheepishly and murmurs an apology. The girls know about his aversion to other people being _on him_. He doesn't explain much to other people what happened to him in his druggie days, but he's told the girls some of it, just enough so that they understand why he doesn't want to be a part of their group hugs, or the touchy-feely let's-do-each-other's-makeup-and-hair shit. Hugs don't make him feel better or more confident. No, they make Kenny feel slimy and tense.

He also doesn't want to get his hopes up. Having hope about this sort of thing, about the possibility of making enough money to leave South Park, or that Cartman will give him a fair cut, just ends in tragedy.

"Break a leg," Kenny calls, as Mercedes opens the door to the dressing room and exits into the hallway.

As her heels click against the hardwood floor, he hears her respond, "In these shoes, I just might."

He laughs a little at that. At least he doesn't have to wear heels. That's one thing he's fucking thankful for. His humiliation has to end somewhere, right?

And then, the night begins.

Cartman likes to start the weekends off with quick beats and on-stage dancing, before getting into any of the really heavy stuff. It gives the customers something to look at, puts him and the girls on display, so that they can get a feel for it they'll want later into the night, when the slow beats go on and the dancing gets up close and personal.

Kenny tries to put his focus into moving his body. It's actually something that, in his first days working at Polly, he had to be taught. Stripping and dancing and all that shit in his job description takes a weird amount of control of the body. He has to know each and every part of it, and use each part to his advantage. He's having a little difficulty at the moment – being that he's trying to subtly scope out tonight's crowd and determine which lucky son of a bitch gets his _attentions_ tonight. He doesn't have much to go on at all, except that the guy is a definite bottom. That's all the better for Kenny. He much prefers to be the one doing the fucking, rather than getting fucked. And with this job, he typically seems to get most of what he _doesn't_ want.

"Poor boy!" Cartman hisses, from the place that he sits, behind the stage, where he can shout out commands, "Get your head in the game."

Kenny nods.

_Don't worry about who it is. _

_If you don't get the fucker's attention, you're done for._

He wants that fucking money.

Kenny tries not to clench his hands into fists. It's his usual reaction when he's trying to concentrate. Instead, he lets his eyelids flutter down, so he can feel the beat from head to toe. He moves his body with it, rolling his spine and thrusting his pelvis forward.

From there, the night seems to pick up.

Kenny lets his mind go. He always has to, if he wants to keep his sanity. If he thinks, he'll realize where he is, what he's doing, what's going to happen to him later tonight, who's in the crowd, who knows his name. He finds himself from time to time mentally murmuring prayers of thanks that his brother doesn't live in South Park anymore, that he lives in Central City where he works at a casino and does handyman work at the Rose Hotel when he can't make ends meet. His brother is exactly the kind of person that enjoys lounging in a strip club, and also exactly the kind of person Kenny doesn't want to witness the work his younger brother does.

A couple hours into the night, Kenny takes a fifteen minute break to hit the bar for some water. As much as he'd like to drink to prepare himself for this 'sugar daddy' that Cartman has promised him to, he knows that that wouldn't be wise. If he wants to turn his seduction capabilities on full, he'll have to be sober. What a fucking pity that is.

"Quite the crowd tonight," Bebe mentions, as she slides a glass of ice water toward him, across the bar. She looks like she's had a bad night. Bebe tends to get hit on by the creeps that frequent Polly, probably based upon the fact that she has a damned nice set of tits, and a long mane of curly blond hair. Unfortunately for the creeps, Bebe is into the ladies. She tries to dress to convey her lack of interest in getting hit on by men – Bebe's typical attire consists of high-waisted black slacks, a button up, suspenders, and a stylish hat (mostly pinstriped fedoras). Instead of her clothing working to her advantage, it seems to work against her. The assholes take her shutting them down as a challenge, instead of what it is: A firm fucking no. Unfortunately in this place, if Bebe was to explain, _I only like girls_, the dudes would take that response as an invitation to a threesome.

God, he hates these people.

Kenny grunts, "Why is everybody saying that? I don't want to talk about these fuckers."

Bebe laughs softly, but asks him, "Are you alright?"

"As alright as I ever am," responds Kenny, tipping back his glass of water, "Cartman's got something in store for me, I hear. Being the dick that he is, he wants it to be a 'surprise.'"

Bebe harrumphs and responds, "Typical."

Kenny silently sips his water, and Bebe goes on, "I will kick some fucking ass if I need to."

"I appreciate that," Kenny tells her. He means it, too. Bebe's gotten him out of more than one sticky situation in the illegal upstairs portion of Polly. Cartman's muscle men don't tend to show up until Kenny's already knocked out on the floor and bleeding. Unlike many club owners of a similar ilk, Cartman doesn't tell the clients not to bruise the bodies that they purchase. The philosophy that Cartman holds instead is that, as long as you can walk and cover the bruises up with makeup, they can hurt you as much as they want. He hasn't taken kindly to the time that Bebe's kicked some faces in, but Kenny lets her know that he values his occasional rescuer. She does it for all of them, though. Not just him. Still. She's an ally.

"Look, honey, don't worry about it," she reassures him. She doesn't pat his hand or stroke his arm or any of the shit she'd normally do. She knows how he feels about people's hands on him. She continues, gently, "I'll keep an eye on you and this guy, okay?"

"Thanks, Bebe," Kenny mumbles. He slams his now-empty drinking glass onto the bar, just as some guy calls, 'Hey sweetie, a beer over here!' and figures that break time is over.

'Bunny Club' will be playing soon, anyway. It plays every Friday night at midnight, some weird tradition that Cartman carries on without an explanation as to why it's necessary. And that's when Cartman is supposed to stop being the douche that he is and just fucking point out this guy whose ass Kenny is supposed to pound. But one never can tell with Cartman. Kenny can only hope that he hasn't changed his mind and has some new and terrible trick up his sleeve.

Kenny runs his hands through his hair, mussing it back into the I-just-had-sex hairstyle. As he pushes through the people and up to the stage, he gets his ass manhandled by multiple gross guys, and he's hoping that none of those fuckers are the one he's gonna have to get in the sack with at the end of the night.

He makes it onto the stage just in time for the low opening of 'Bunny Club' to begin. This is when the night gets up close and personal. Cartman begins to instruct them all to pay attention to this person or another, or otherwise dance for any guy that's waving around a wad of cash.

Kenny looks over at Cartman and raises his brows, sweeping his hand across the crowd.

"Over there, in the corner," Cartman says, and he points.

Kenny's eyes follow the line of Cartman's hand, where in a back booth, sits a familiar blond man. He looks different than Kenny remembers last seeing him – he looks like he might be taller, and his baby fat is, for the most part, nowhere to be seen. Instead, his jaw is more squared off, his eyes older looking. Still, his hands are on the table, and he's rubbing his knuckles are rubbing together the way he always did when he felt awkward.

Kenny continues to grind his body up against the pole he's assigned to and asks, "You can't be talking about motherfucking Stotch, can you?"

"That is exactly who I am talking about, poor boy," Cartman says.

Butters must have really changed, if the kind of person that he's become is the kind of person that purchases hookers in small-town Colorado.

"Are you fucking with me, Cartman? Because if you are, it's not funny," Kenny says.

"Why is it so hard to believe that he'd want to buy you, Kinny? You're pretty, after all, even if you are a drugged-up prostitute," Cartman responds matter-of-factly, "Now go dance for him, you stupid prick."

Kenny breathes in deep from his nostrils, ignoring the fury building inside him. God, it is impossible to have a conversation with that asshole. And this lap dance will possibly be the most awkward of his career. He takes another long breath in before he steels himself enough to do this. He's had to do this sort of thing for people he knows all the time. At least it's not like, Stan or something. That would be the height of terrible.

So, as he crosses the room to the booth in the back, passing by the leering eyes of older men, Kenny comforts himself with his usual mantra: _It could always be worse._

Butters is pretty attractive, actually. He always was, though the last time that Kenny saw him was in high school, and at that point, his attractiveness was most of a sort of 'that guy is adorable' thing. Now he's just plain fucking attractive. Who cares if Kenny knows him? If Butters is dishing out the amount of cash that Cartman says he is, this deal is gonna work out fucking great. Plus, Butters doesn't at all seem the type to enjoy beating the shit out of his rentboy. He seems more like the pretend-you're-in-love-with-me-Kenny kind of a guy. He can do that. As averse as Kenny is to the feeling of love in actuality, he's good at pretending, good at acting like he's in love, good at making his clients feel like they're something special to him.

Butters doesn't look up from his fruity-looking drink until Kenny is practically in front of him. When their eyes connect, Butters' widen in surprise.

"K-Ken?" he stammers.

Kenny puts on his best ready-to-be-sexed face, despite the build of embarrassment inside him. He is so mortified that Butters of all people is seeing him now, and he wonders if Butters even knew what he was getting when he started up a deal with Cartman. Why is Butters even back in town? Last Kenny had heard, the guy was enlisted in the Army and about to be shipped overseas. That was years and years ago, before Cartman had gotten him off the streets and Kenny sobered up.

"Hey," Kenny says. God, sometimes he has to admire his own ability to act. He can make his voice sound all sultry and lustful despite the fact that on the inside, he is dying from the embarrassment.

Kenny leans down and licks his lips, lifting his eyebrows, before picking up the beat and working up a rhythm.

Butters looks less seduced and more surprised, so he tries harder. Gotta put his best sexy on.

"Hey, um, K-Kenny, I'm not sure –"

Kenny leans his face into Butters' own, so their lips are a mere inch apart. He doesn't actually do kissing. It's not a part of his damned job, which is excellent, because kissing is too intimate a thing to be sharing with people that buy you. But he can tease, and Kenny teases well, drawing his tongue over his teeth as he grinds his body close to Butters' chest.

Butters' blushes and stutters, unable to form a sentence. Kenny tries not to look concerned, but he thinks that maybe Butters isn't a lap dance man. Maybe he likes to just cut to the chase. Fuck. Cartman should have told him that, not let Kenny humiliate himself first. But Cartman _would_ do something like that. He's probably laughing right now. _What a joke, I made the poor boy fuck up with his new client, who is Butters motherfucking Stotch. _

Kenny bends and whispers in Butters' ear, "Come with me."

"Uh, okay," Butters agrees.

He grips Butters by the wrist. Kenny doesn't want to hold his hand – that's a little much for him.

Kenny pulls him into the hallway and up the narrow set of stairs that leads to the bedrooms where Kenny and the girls work the less-legal shit. He asks, "Are you a bed man, a bath man, what?"

If possible, Butters turns even pinker. Yeesh, this guy really has not gotten into this trade before, has he? That's fine. It's actually comforting to know that Butters hasn't really been around in market for awhile. And Kenny's decent at comforting newcomers, or so he's been told.

He pauses when they reach the top of the stairs and give Butters' a comforting rub on his back. He reassures him, "It's okay. You don't have to be embarrassed."

After a long silence, Butters starts to untense in Kenny's hands. He says, "Bed, I guess," so quiet that Kenny wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't been listening intently.

"Say no more," Kenny offers a suggestive smile, closes his fingers around Butters' wrist again, and leads him down to the end of the hallway.

He figures that if Butters is going to give them as much money as Cartman suggested, Cartman won't mind if they utilize the best room in the house. It's the one that Liane originally put the most effort into decorating. It's coated in reds and golds, and a whole hell of a lot of tassels. It's a little overdone, but the bed is phenomenal. It's huge and comfy and has silky bedclothes. He wishes his bed at his apartment was more like this one, but alas, his own bed is little more than a glorified cot.

Kenny pushes Butters back onto the mattress and crawls on top of him. He reaches down and begins his process – it's not particularly sexy, no, but it does what it's supposed to, even if it's a little 'apply, rinse, repeat.' He rubs his leather-clad crotch against Butters' pelvis.

Butters breath catches in his throat and he makes a tiny sound between a mewl and moan. He's trying to stammer out something again, but he's so flustered that he can't. Jesus, Kenny is really starting to feel bad for the guy.

That is, until Butters seizes Kenny by the wrists and shoves him backward, off of the bed.

Kenny could swear that in that moment, his heart feels as though it was stopped beating altogether, and dropped down into the pit of his stomach. Butters looks so fucking _furious_, and his first reaction is to cover his head. He didn't realize Butters would be the manhandling type, but then, sometimes it is the ones that you least expect to be heavy handed that are the most violent of them all.

But Butters doesn't hit him again. Instead, he crouches in front of Kenny and moves his arms away from his head. He says softly, "Sorry, Ken. I think you – ah, got the wrong guy."

Kenny's so stunned that he can't even maintain his cool. His voice comes out hoarse as he demands, "What?"

Butters entire face turns red all over again, all the way back to his ears. He explains, "I think you might'a mistook me for somebody else. I ain't even supposed to be here, really."

"What?" Kenny repeats. Butters has _got_ to be kidding. He heard Cartman clearly reply that yes, Kenny is supposed to be working his rentboy magic on a _Stotch. _He was fucking pointing to Butters, for Christ's sake. There is no other Butters Stotch, merely this one.

"I'm supposed to – supposed to be at home with my mom. But my dad made me come here with him tonight. Wants me to be a 'real man,' or whatever," Butters shrugs.

Kenny laughs bitterly. He says, "And instead, you get me. Awesome."

Butters offers Kenny a hand and pulls them both up. Butters sits on the edge of the mattress, straightening out his plain white t-shirt, even though there's nothing there to straighten. After a few seconds, Kenny takes a seat beside him, leaving about a foot of distance between them. He doesn't know why he's decided to sit here. He shouldn't have. This is even more mortifying than he originally thought.

"If you don't mind my asking," Butters says, "what are you doing in a place like this?"

Kenny…doesn't think that he has ever been asked that question in his life. Nobody has ever said words like that to him before. It's always been an, 'oh, of course the McCormick boy ended up selling his body for money, why wouldn't he?' Everybody he knows, everybody he once knew – they just assume that he belongs here, that he deserves no better fate than to have the shit beaten out of him by some guy he's just fucked.

"You don't have to answer me," Butters quickly says, "I just didn't realize…um."

"That I'm a prostitute?" Kenny finishes, lifting a brow.

Is there anything more embarrassing than accidentally giving a lap dance and dry humping a kid you knew in high school as your sort-of-kind-of friend, in leather pants, shirtless, covered in makeup? Kenny hopes that he never has to meet a more humiliating situation.

"Er, yeah," Butters says, rubbing his knuckles together.

"Let's just say that it's better than where I was," Kenny says dryly.

As much fun as confessing his transgressions to a guy that he hasn't seen in like, seven or eight years sounds – oh, wait. None of that sounds fun at all. He'll just keep that era of his life to himself, thank you very much.

Butters smiles shyly at Kenny, and says, "It's funny. I always thought you were one of the smartest kids I ever knew. I know you never did none of your homework or nothing like that back when we were in high school, but you always seemed like you knew so much."

Kenny, although flattered, is not entirely certain what to say to that. Is Butters saying that Kenny used to be too smart to end up in a place like this? That's too bad, because now he's paying back his debt to Eric Cartman dollar by painstaking dollar.

"Huh," is the noise that comes out, "Well, I'm pretty sure you're the only one that's ever said that to me before. Thanks. I guess. But I'm here now." Kenny gets to his feet and motions toward the door, "You wanna go back downstairs? I'm sure most of the girls are still out there dancing."

Butters laughs a little. God, he still sounds like a kid when he laughs like that. It almost isn't fair. Kenny wishes that he still had the ability to laugh like that, but he doesn't. There's not much that he _can_ do anymore. He doesn't do much but exist. That's okay. If you do more than exist, you're setting yourself up for a lifetime of pain, and he's got enough of that on his plate as it is.

"I don't like girls," Butters says, laughing again, like it's a huge joke.

"Um," Kenny manages, "But then – wait, did you say that your _dad_ took you here?"

Oh, shit.

Oh, shit.

Oh, shit.

_Please do not tell me that Cartman sold me to fucking Stotch senior._

Jesus Christ.

"Yup, thinks that some stripper ladies can take th'gay outta me," Butters replies cheerily.

When he walked toward Butters' table, he walked by some leering older guys. One had even grinned at him. He hadn't recognized Stephen Stotch, but shit, that's who that had to be, right at the booth in front of Butters. _Shit. _

Oh, Jesus. He hopes that he hasn't fucked up too bad with this one. Kenny _needs_ that money to get out of here. He _needs_ that client. He doesn't care if it's Butters' goddamned dad and that the man has got to be pushing sixty at this point, he absolutely has to have that money.

"Hey, Ken? Y'alright?" Butters waves a hand in front of Kenny's face. Fuck. He must've let the emotion slip out onto his face. God, he hopes he didn't look as traumatized as he felt in that moment.

"Totally fine," Kenny answers tightly, "Look, Butters, it was nice catching up and all, but I've actually got to get to work, or I won't , um –"

There are voices echoing in the hallway. Kenny crosses his fingers and prays that it's one of the girls with a new client finding her own room, but then he hears the distinct, authoritative ring of Cartman's voice.

"_I'm sure he's here, Mr. Stotch. I'm very sorry for the inconvenience."_

"_That's quite alright, as long as I get what I've come for."_

"_Rest assured, you _will_ enjoy yourself, Stephen. I employ nobody but the best."_

"Fuck," Kenny says. He tugs Butters up by the collar of his white t-shirt, searching desperately for a place to hide him. There's a balcony, yeah, but it's too high up for Butters to climb down. Besides, it's icy as fuck out there right now. Too dangerous.

The closet.

That's their only option.

He wrenches the sliding door to the closet open and shoves Butters inside before the man can so much as protest the way that Kenny is handling him. He says, "Sorry, man," just as the door opens.

Cartman and Stephen Stotch step into the room at the exact same instant that Kenny props himself up on the mattress and makes himself look as sex-ready as humanly possible. He gives a dashing grin, hoping that it doesn't look as forced as it really is and says lowly, "I've been waiting." For an added effect, Kenny rubs himself through the front of his pants, giving an exaggerated moan at the sensation. This is routine, really. He's going to have to get himself hard anyway. May as well put on a show while he's at it.

From behind Butters' eager-looking father, Cartman gives Kenny the evil eye, a sign that he is definitely in fucking trouble for this mix-up.

Cartman looks Kenny up and down suspiciously one final time, before turning on his heel. At the door, he drawls, "He's all yours, Stephen."

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to the lovely human beings that reviewed chapter one: prettyoddrydonfan, ObanesHarvest, DoYouUnderstand, Anon, Porn Mercenary, conversefreak3, TheAwesome15, R. R. Miaera, Mallory, MariePierre, KirstenTheDestroyer, and FlyAwayMax.**


	3. Come With Me

**Chapter Track: Stripped (cover) – Shiny Toy Guns**

"You _humiliated_ me tonight, poor boy!" Cartman shouts, bits of spittle flying out of his mouth as he raves. He swirls the scotch at the bottom of his glass as downs the remainder, before slamming the cup on his desk. Cartman's finally undone some of the buttons on his shirt, rolled up his cuffs, gotten rid of his designer jacket. It is, after all, past three in the morning.

"Do you even fucking understand what you could have cost me?" demands Cartman. He's screaming at the top of his lungs. Kenny's actually impressed that somebody hasn't heard and tried to check up on them. Not for Kenny's sake, of course. Cartman just appears to be on the brink of putting himself to cardiac arrest from the pure _rage_.

At that exact moment, Cartman seizes Kenny by the collar of his winter coat, which he had been in the middle of putting on when Cartman commanded that Kenny come to his fancy fucking office for the second goddamned time that night. He just wants to go home. That's all he wants. He wants to collapse into bed and sleep for a year, because it's the next best thing after dying from embarrassment.

No, this is more than embarrassment. This is flat-out mortification. It's shame. Christ, he just wants a cigarette – but he can't even have that until Cartman is finished with his psychotic tirade.

Kenny's slammed up against the wall. It hurts. Cartman is a big guy. He probably doesn't even realize how much strength he wields in those meaty fucking fists of his. He shakes Kenny and yells, "You fucking stupid _slut_!"

"Cartman, stop," Kenny says tiredly. He wonders if Cartman might be accidentally about to kill him. Scratch that, it wouldn't be an accident if Cartman murdered him. Cartman means that kind of shit, and he's meant it the past…two times he's killed Kenny. Huh. That's not actually as many of Kenny's deaths under Cartman's belt as originally he'd thought.

"Stop? Stop! You could have cost me thousands of dollars, you stupid fucking whore," Cartman hisses. He reeks of scotch and expensive cigars and pricey food and strong cologne and _sex_. The smell of Cartman is Kenny's least favorite aroma on this planet. It just reeks of the kind of person that's never had to suffer, that's never had to live a day without a meal on the table, that's never had to resort to drastic measures to keep from living another day housed in a cardboard shanty in an alleyway. Cartman has never, and will never, know those things.

Cartman has never suffered a fucking day in his life, and still, this man finds a way to make himself the victim in every single fucking situation that he walks into. Kenny tries to seduce the wrong Stotch and ends up having to fuck Stotch senior while his son is hiding in the closet no more than three feet away? Cartman is the victim. Obviously.

"It all worked out, didn't it?" Kenny holds up his hands in defense. His voice is thin from the collar of his coat being wrapped too tightly around him. Cartman is holding Kenny about a half inch in the air, and he can't fucking breathe. This may very well be the third time that Eric Cartman has killed him.

But Cartman lets go.

Kenny falls onto the ground in a heap, trying to catch his breath. Cartman nudges his mostly-limp body toward the double doors with his foot and says, "Just get the fuck out of here, poor boy. When I see you again you had better be ready to be _owned_ by Stephen Stotch, you hear, asshole?"

"Loud and clear, boss," Kenny wheezes. He forces himself up, despite the lack of air in his lungs, and stumbles out into the hallway.

Christ, he just wants to be home.

Kenny takes a couple minutes to pull himself together. He tries to shove tonight's events in the back of his mind, where they can firmly remain until he has to come to work tomorrow night. But the type of sick feeling that he has in his gut, the illness that he's felt since he faced Stephen Stotch in that room – it's the kind of feeling that doesn't leave, especially since that's all you want in the world. It's a horrible combination of guilt and humiliation and disgust at himself.

He goes out the back, flipping up his hood, though nobody is around anymore. By the time that Stotch senior fell asleep, the club had shut down for the night and the rest of the girls were either at home counting tips, or pleasuring their own johns in the other rooms in the bordello.

Fuck, it's cold. He needs to stop being lazy and invest in some new shirts. Sure, it'll eat into his escape fund, but he needs to have clothes to put on his back once he's out of here. Not that Kenny doesn't own shirts. It's just that most of them are holed or stained or something he's picked out of the donation bin at the church.

He wraps his arms around himself. The wind tonight is blowing into him, and his stupid coat is doing next to nothing.

He's only walked a few paces before he hears the roar of a motorcycle engine. The shadows move as headlights approach.

But then, they don't pass him. Motorcycle-riding douche is trying to pick him up, Kenny thinks. That's just what he needs at this time of night. After everything that he's been through in the past few hours, he doesn't want some bearded asshole from Wherever, Wyoming to proposition him. He's had enough of sticking his dick in old-ass creeps tonight, thank you _very_ much.

"Hey!" the rider shouts over the loud sound of his engine.

Kenny ignores the prick and keeps on walking, hugging his arms even tighter around his middle. God, why do dudes think it's so fucking flattering to be yelled at from a vehicle? It's not flattering at all to Kenny. He hates it. It makes him feel unsafe, like he's some sort of public property.

"Hey, Ken!"

That makes his head turn.

On the motorcycle is Butters Stotch, now wearing a worn-out old leather jacket and a thick-looking knit scarf (it's red with little snowflakes embroidered on it. Pretty ugly, if you ask Kenny) over his white t-shirt. Guess he's more than bike-curious, now.

"What do you want?" Kenny asks, voice hard, and he keeps walking. He feels his face go red again just thinking about what went down. He felt like he'd been stuck in that bedroom for a week, instead of just a couple hours. Butters had tried to talk to Kenny when they finally got out of there, but he'd torn down the stairs like the devil was chasing after him before Butters could get a word in edgewise. Because, seriously, like _hell_ he was going to talk about what had just occurred.

"You need a ride home?" offers Butters.

What the hell is this guy getting at?

"No," answers Kenny.

Finally, Butters turns his motorcycle off, but he continues to walk it right alongside Kenny as he marches toward his apartment building.

"Come on, you look tired," Butters says. His voice is gentle, and well-meaning. It's almost as if Butters never even changed since leaving South Park, though, even just by looking at Butters, you can tell that isn't true.

Kenny pulls out his last cigarette with a sigh and lights it. If there's one real reason he should kick this habit, it's how expensive these goddamn things are. But he doesn't want to stop smoking, because when he lights one up he feels like he can be calm for two fucking seconds. Sadly, at the moment, the nicotine doesn't work its magic fast enough. He snaps, "Butters, what the fuck do you want with me? In case you've fucking forgotten, I just fucked your own father in front of you."

"I was, uh, coverin' my eyes, just for the record," Butters says earnestly.

"Oh," Kenny manages, because he doesn't quite know what he's supposed to say to that. He's relieved, on one level. On another, he starts to worry about all the fake moaning and dirty talk he was doing.

"Those'll kill you, you know," Butters says solemnly, indicating to the cigarette in Kenny's hand as he takes a fresh and wonderful drag.

He chuckles, smoke coming out of his mouth as he does, and replies, "Like I give a damn."

Butters looks absolutely horrified. Kenny sometimes forgets that people don't know about the frequency of his deaths, and the fact that he'll always come back. He doesn't know how he manages to forget that other people don't know. Maybe it's just that death is so ingrained into his life that sometimes, a joke will slip out. Or, in this case, his apathy to the prospect of dying again. Because, really, he gets a new set of lungs every time he gets back. Cigarettes will probably never kill him…but just in case, he crosses fingers when he thinks that.

"Well, shit. That's no way to be talking," Butters says, "Why, you never used to talk this way. You were the happiest guy I knew."

"Didn't used to fuck old dudes for cash, either," Kenny says, blowing out a long column of cigarette smoke.

Butters narrows his eyes. He says, "Look here. It's fuckin' cold out here. So you're gonna get on my bike, and I'm gonna take you home."

"Jesus, Butters, why?" Kenny is exasperated. He really doesn't want to be in the presence of his goddamned fucking _sugar daddy's_ _son_ anymore. This is the worst possible way that the night could have ended. He just wants to be wrapped up in his blanket and asleep. Is that too much to ask? Apparently, he can't get a fucking break around here.

Butters looks as incensed as Kenny feels. He says, "You look like you need somebody to cut you a break, is all."

Kenny frowns. He briefly entertains the idea that Butters can read minds, but decides that that is impossible. Butters just sounds so _sincere_, but for all he knows, Butters could really be trying to lure Kenny into a night of cash-free sex, which Kenny does not do anymore.

No, Butters probably wouldn't do that. Even this all-grown-up, boyish good looks Butters. Man, when they were kids, he'd just been kind of cute and fun to fuck around with because of his gullibility. Now he's an actual _guy._ And it's _weird._ Kenny does not like it all.

His next thought is that maybe Butters isn't trying to get free sex out of him, but that he is instead going to try and beat the shit out of Kenny for humping him into a bed and then fucking his old man while he hid in the closet a few feet away. Hands over eyes or not, that has got to be a little traumatizing. Teenage Butters couldn't have hurt a fly, but this one looks like he could fucking snap your neck. He's not buff, not even toned, really – just fit. His shoulders are broader, and his arms are a bit thicker. He looks like he could take a man down, even if he is wearing world's fruitiest scarf around his neck.

Kenny sighs, and tosses his cigarette butt into a dirty snow drift, before he says, "Fine. But I'll kick you in the balls in you try anything."

"Try anyth – I'm ah, not that kind of person," Butters tilts his head to the side, looking a little like a lost puppy.

"I've heard that one before," Kenny says lightly, or at least that's how he tries to say it. The words come out flat and bitter instead.

Butters frowns, but he doesn't respond to that, which is considerate of him. He pats the space behind and Kenny fidgets a little before he decides that, yes, he is going to do this. He climbs behind Butters, but he doesn't want to touch him, so he grabs the bottom of Butters' leather jacket instead.

"You're supposed to put your arms around my waist," Butters says.

"Well, I'm not going to do that. So just drive," Kenny replies, "It's like five minutes away. The grungy looking apartment complex that smells like urine, you can't miss it." He says this all sarcastically, but there's no humor in it. The place he lives is world's biggest cesspool of health code violations. And even then, his rent would be too high if he hadn't sucked his landlord's dick when they were negotiating price. But that brings a whole new price into question – every time he sees his landlord and his stupid handlebar mustache, he thinks of the _literally_ under-the-table deal that they made. It's uncomfortable, to say the least.

It's fucking cold riding a motorcycle at this time of year – well, at least it is tonight. October weather in Colorado is a temperamental beast. It's supposed to be over seventy degrees tomorrow, but yesterday, it snowed. At least the drive is short, and gloriously silent. Kenny wouldn't be able to hear Butters over the roar of his bike anyhow, but he likes Butters doesn't even try to speak a word.

When Kenny points out his building, Butters pulls into a parking space and stops the bike, swinging off of it as Kenny does.

"What are you doing?" Kenny asks tiredly.

This is the part where Butters beats the living shit out of him, he imagines.

"Walkin' you to your door," Butters says plainly, "What else would I be doin'?"

Kenny lifts a brow, but supposes there's no harm in that. If shit's going down tonight, he already invited the trouble by accepting Butters' offer of transportation in the first place.

He responds gruffly, "Elevator's broke. I'm on the top floor." Sure, there are only five flights of stairs. It's nothing hard, if you haven't come across a night with a john that went south and got the crap kicked out of you so badly that it hurts to breathe. Thank fucking Christ tonight wasn't one of those nights. The only thing that's wrong with Kenny is that he desperately wants to shower.

Sadly, Butters is not disheartened by the prospect of a hike, and follows Kenny cheerily all the way up the stairs, babbling about how he doesn't think it's legal to leave the elevator broken for long. When Kenny explains that the elevator has been broken for a year, Butters wonders aloud "how dang hard it is to get a handyman to take a peek at the thing."

Kenny doesn't bother saying goodbye to Butters when they reach his door. He hears Esther barking up a storm inside and hopes that she wasn't doing that the entire time that he was at work. Luckily, since the rent's dirt cheap, no one complains about anything – and that includes his noisy-ass dog.

"You have a dog?" Butters says brightly, as Kenny turns the key in the knob and jiggles it a bit, hoping that it doesn't stick like it did last week. The last thing he wants to do is to have to go get his landlord to open the damned thing again.

Thankfully, it opens without putting up too much of a fight, and Kenny is greeted instantly by an enthusiastically wagging tail. Esther isn't a pretty dog. He wasn't sober when he took her, either. Around the same time that Kenny ran out of money for drugs, he'd gotten really into gambling on illegal dog fights. He'd betted on Esther, but the poor girl got her tail whooped. After all the other lowlifes had gone home, he'd snuck into the back and carried her out of there. They lived together on the streets for awhile. Turns out that having a one-eyed dog gets a homeless guy major sympathy points. She's missing part of her ear, too, though not all of it.

"Poor doggie," Butters comments sadly, giving her a scratch behind the ears. Yeesh, why isn't she biting him?

"Why are you still here?" Kenny asks tersely.

"Why are _you_ bein' a dickhead? I'm just petting your dog," Butters says matter-of-factly.

Kenny eyes him for a moment and then shrugs. He says, "Fine. Whatever. But we can't stand in the hallway and I need to shower."

He closes the door behind him and prays that Butters doesn't look too closely at his surroundings. He lives in a hovel, and he knows that. He merely doesn't want anybody else to know.

However, Kenny doesn't dwell on the thought for long – he's too eager to get the smell of strip club off of him. He practically pounces into his bathroom, draping his leather pants over the counter and leaving his coat on the floor beside the toilet. Like many things in this structure, Kenny's water heater is broken. He doesn't mind too much. It helps him keep the water bill down, and the water heater in his childhood home – the only other place he's lived besides here and the streets – was also always busted. So, he's used to it.

Still, he scrubs himself more thoroughly than usual, allowing for an extra couple of minutes underneath the freezing spray of water. He doesn't know why Stephen Stotch should feel any different than another creepy old guy, but he does. Maybe because his son was a few feet away. Maybe because Butters is nice and good and shouldn't have had to hear that. And for whatever reason, he gave Kenny a ride home.

While he scrubs his skin pink, he lets the tension go for a second, singing 'Fortunate Son' into his loofa at the top of his lungs, despite the fact that he's already fake-moaned himself hoarse. He air guitars right before he shampoos, and steps out feeling like a different guy. Like himself. A regular guy, singing in his regular, broken shower, in his regular bathroom – the floor of which is actually in bad need of replacement. He'd had a water leak a couple years ago, and the linoleum is brown and peeling at the corners of the room.

His hovel isn't much. But it is home. It's the only one he's ever really had, even if you can hear the rats at night and he has to walk up five flights of stairs and the water heater doesn't work.

Kenny towels his hair, feeling a lot better. He doesn't feel nearly as slimy or dirty, and he's relieved. He worried that he wouldn't be able to get The Feeling off of him, this time. There have been times it's taken weeks for The Feeling to go away.

Feeling dirty is only the basest part of one several sensations that compose _The Feeling._ After filthiness, it's guilt and shame. After guilt and shame is depression. After depression is the worst part of all: A horrible, cloying loneliness. That part comes when Kenny realizes how tragically _alone_ he is. Only he will ever know about his deaths. While it is more than just Kenny shouldering the burden of making Cartman money, he's the one that Cartman singles out the most – maybe because they used to be friends, or maybe Cartman truly does gain some sick pleasure out of torturing poor people. Probably both.

Kenny shakes himself out of those thoughts. He can't afford to think like that right now.

He pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a worn down souvenir t-shirt that somebody bought in Bozeman, Montana and left in the Catholic church's donation bin, where he picked it up. After that, he yanks his feet into thick, wool socks. They're itchy, but it's fucking freezing and itchiness isn't much of a sacrifice if he can keep from waking up with his toes numb.

Kenny is honestly surprised when he exits the bathroom with his towel hanging around his neck and he discovers Butters, still in his apartment – except that Butters is rummaging around in his refrigerator.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?" demands Kenny.

Butters jumps, and turns around, snapping the fridge door closed. His face is slightly pink with embarrassment. He says, "You ah – have a nice singing voice, Ken. And wow! Your face looks awful nice without all that makeup on it."

Kenny folds his arms, "Dude. What were you doing in my fridge?" Because, really. There are a lot of places to bum food from, but Kenny's refrigerator is _not_ one of those.

Butters rubs his knuckles together nervously and explains, "Geez, I'm sorry. I don't know what I was doin'. It just doesn't seem like you're getting three square meals a day. There's only beer in there."

"My food is in that cabinet over there," replies Kenny. For whatever reason, he feels as if Butters is exactly the kind of person that really would be looking in his fridge to make sure that he's getting enough to eat, and not the kind of person that freeloads from a poor-as-shit rentboy.

Butters stares at Kenny for a moment, as if seeking permission to look in his kitchen cabinets, before turning and giving the nearest one a cautious peek inside. He says, "You've got nothing but ramen."

"Ramen is food," Kenny says, "Speaking of, that sounds amazing right now. Move over."

At the words 'move over' Butters backs out of the kitchen in an instant, darting into the dark living room like a rabbit. He startles Esther, who barks at Butters and runs over to investigate.

"You want a bowl?" asks Kenny, holding up a package of pork flavored ramen noodles.

Butters starts to wring his hands – which are gloved, Kenny notices, in fingerless biker-esque gloves. He starting to think that in the past years that he hasn't seen Butters, the man has gotten fucking weird. He stammers, "I – uh – um –"

"Dude, just spit it out," Kenny says, grabbing a pot from the rack on his wall. He has three of them – a smaller pot, a medium, and a frying pan – the last of which for if he's feeling fancy and he makes some eggs or instant pancakes or something. He doesn't usually feel fancy. He lights one of the burners lazily as Butters continues to stutter behind him.

"I, um, well, I. I don't wanna, um, eat you outta house n' home," Butters explains.

Kenny glances over his shoulder and says, "Dude…I'm not _that_ poor. I can spare a bowl of ramen noodles."

"If you're sure," Butters mumbles, "I am kinda hungry." As if to agree with him, his stomach growls. It's probably one of those inconvenient late-night bouts of hunger for Butters, when to Kenny, this is kind of like brunch, or something.

So he cooks them both a package each of noodles, pork for him, and shrimp for Butters (which is okay by Kenny, he hates shrimp flavor and doesn't know how it even came to exist in his food cabinet). They sit down next to each other on Kenny's torn-up old couch that he found on the side of the road, and had his sister come pick up in her truck, along with him – since he doesn't own his own mode of transportation.

Butters is having trouble holding his plastic fork with his gloves. He can't grip it, and after a few tries and his stomach complaining angrily, Butters gives a small sigh and pulls the things off.

Kenny stares.

His hands are _fucked up. _They look…mangled. Burned to hell. He doesn't even know _what_ you would call what they look like, they just look terrible, like maybe something stuck them into a meat grinder that churned particularly slowly.

"Holy Jesus, what happened to your _hands_?" Kenny asks, gaping openly. He realizes a second later that looking at them like that is probably rude, so he glances into his bowl and keeps eating to distract himself, shoveling noodles into his mouth. But out of the corner of his eyes, he's still looking at the angry, stretched-looking, pink skin on Butters' hands.

"You must be the only person in the whole world that doesn't know," Butters remarks.

"Do I detect a hint of sarcasm?" Kenny asks, "But really. Dude, that…looks painful."

Butters gives Kenny a genuinely confused expression. He gradually says, "Bebe told me that it was all over the news."

"I don't watch the news," Kenny responds. He's now extremely curious, despite himself. It's just that he's made Butters visibly uncomfortable, and that piques his interest. This guy just accepts things, he doesn't get riled up at the mention of something. Though, to be fair, whatever made his hands look like that couldn't have been pretty.

"It's why I got an honorable discharge from the Army. I can't move 'em right anymore, sometimes," Butters says. His voice is so quiet that Kenny can hardly hear him at all, and when he opens his mouth to continue, Kenny leans in closer so he can hear, "They caught me. In Iraq. Some actual bad fellas. I mean, they wouldn't have caught me if I'd run, but I didn't want to leave the other guys behind so I – " Butters pauses and clears his throat, nervously assessing Kenny's stare, which Kenny is certain is blank, because he's trying to keep the guilt off of his face. Why didn't he know that this had happened? Wouldn't it have been all over South Park?

"So you what?" Kenny urges, ramen forgotten.

"So I helped get my guys outta there. I'm glad I did, I just wish I coulda saved my own ass, too. I don't like talkin' about this, can we stop?" Butters actually looks like he might cry.

"Of course we can stop," Kenny says, because as much as he wants to know about what happened in Iraq, Kenny himself is not often extended the courtesy of being allowed to stop doing something that he isn't comfortable with.

"I, ah, think I'm gonna go back home," Butters swallows, looking apologetic.

"That's fine," Kenny murmurs. He doesn't even know why Butters decided to invite himself in here in the first place. Oddly, he's glad that it happened. It makes everything weirdly…okay. Like, shit, everything is still horrible and awkward and disgusting in some place, but right here, it isn't. Next to plain old Butters Stotch, he feels alright. Not like his usual self, somebody used up and mangled and without the energy to deal with it all. It's strange, because he doesn't feel like this around a lot of people anymore. He feels it around his sister, but in a different, calmer way. A long, long time ago, he felt it with Stan and Kyle.

Tonight's events feel abruptly…_less. _Less everything, really. Like, somehow, he knows that it's gonna be fine, and Kenny actually believes that he'll escape from this place.

So, he says goodbye to Butters and empties out their dishes into the sink, before slipping underneath the covers on his twin-sized bed. Esther leaps up onto the bed to lie down behind him, giving the back of his neck a contented lick. Kenny is impressed that she liked Butters. Esther doesn't trust anybody. She didn't trust him at all in the beginning – she peed on a bunch of his stuff and hardly touched the food that he gave her. But she took to Butters right off the bat. Kenny gets that. He did too, if he thinks about it.

Butters, he supposes, has a thing about him, something that just lets you know that he's a non-threat, that he means well.

_Shit_, Kenny thinks, _I'm going soft._

But after that, he falls into a sleep that, instead of being ridden by his usual night terrors, is wonderfully dreamless.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to my spectacular reviewers: R.R. Miaera, MariePierre, conversefreak3, prettyoddrydonfan, 1220McCormick, Chasing Rabbits, Raccoon Loon, KirstenTheDestroyer, PachucaSunrise, Mallory, TheAwesome15, sadpeople56, and ArisuXMehla381. I love you guys!**

**Questions/Comments/Suggestions? Hit me up. **


	4. Don't Remind Me Why I'm Here

**Chapter Track: Clap Your Hands – Pale Young Gentlemen**

Sometimes Kenny wonders how his clients would act if they found out what he did in his free time, that he's not anything like the slightly-tousled, made-up, sultry God of sex that he pretends to be in the confines of Polly. That he's a normal guy. Maybe he's not the _most_ normal – he does tend to die and come back, to begin with. But overall, his joys are fairly standard, and his daily activity even more so.

For example, he is now sitting on top of his apartment complex's dryer after feeding both his freshly cleaned clothes and his quarters to it, reading an old issue of The Incredible Hulk.

And as if somebody heard his curiosity and made it so his wish came true, who should come into the communal laundry room at that exact moment carrying his own basket of laundry, but Kevin fucking Stoley. To be fair, Kenny has run into Kevin a few times before. He gathers that Kevin lives in a much-nicer double, paying full rent, on the first floor of the complex. He can't be certain, but he thinks that the guy might have once helped him up the stairs. Kenny died directly afterward, however, and the events leading up to that death are a little hazy, due to the head wound he'd been dealt.

Neither of them speak to each other as Kevin opens up the washer and piles his clothing into it (which Kenny finds strange. He'd pegged Kevin as the type of guy that would separate lights and darks and colds and warms and all that jazz. Apparently not). This is fine by Kenny. They try to avoid speaking to each other at all costs, he's found. Or maybe it's that Kevin tries to avoid speaking to Kenny at all costs, which is also perfectly fine. Maybe Kevin feels guilty that he's got such a fancy-ass position underneath Cartman (right-hand man, really, if you don't count the beefcakes that wander around looking like they could kick your ass, presumably the same beefcakes that follow Kenny around from day to day), and that he's found Kenny bruised and beaten to hell more than once at the foot of the apartment's stairs.

That is why, after Kevin has pushed a suitable amount of quarters in with his Tide, Kenny is surprised that Kevin opens his mouth and asks, "Is that issue #330?"

"Uh…yes?" Kenny answers. The issue number is on the front of the comic book, of course, but Kevin's too far away to be able to see the number. In fact, he's so far across the laundry room that Kenny isn't certain that the guy isn't trying to stay as far away as humanly possible from Kenny. Some people do that – like if they stand too close to Kenny, they'll get a disease. This pisses him off beyond belief, of course. It's stupid on so many fucking levels, the first being that Kenny is clean. If he didn't die and get a new body every time, he would still make each client wear a fucking condom (or he'd wear one, depending on their preference), like he does _anyway. _And you can't catch a disease from breathing the same air as Kenny anyhow.

"I didn't know you were a comics guy," Kevin remarks slowly, approaching Kenny like he's a wild animal.

"One of my few joys in life," Kenny says, sure to coat his words in sarcasm, even though he's telling the truth. Comics and old records – both kind of suck up his extra money from time to time, but he figures that if he can't escape South Park soon, he should at least spend a little money making himself marginally happier in the meantime. He narrows his eyes at Kevin and says, "Why the fuck are you talking to me, Stoley? In case you've forgotten, allow me to remind you that you're all buddy-buddy with my _pimp_, dickhole."

Kevin frowns and responds, "I'm not buddy-buddy with Cartman."

"Don't tell me that you're sleeping with him too," Kenny says icily. Cartman doesn't make Kenny do it often – despite everything, Cartman tends to prefer women. But some days, he does like a little dick in his life. Thankfully this event seldom happens. It makes Kenny feel especially disgusting, not that he feels fine and dandy with a regular john. It's just that Cartman enjoys pretending that _he's_ the whore, and the kink is that Kenny talks to Cartman the way that Cartman treats Kenny, with rough hands and cruel words. And Kenny doesn't really like that. Once upon a time, dirty talk was fun for him. Now that the things people say when they're talking dirty apply to who he is in reality, it feels a little degrading. And for whatever reason, it feels even worse when Kenny's speaking like that to somebody else.

Maybe it's because he doesn't want anybody to feel the way that he does on most nights.

Whatever it is, sleeping with Cartman is fucking uncomfortable. He acts like it isn't, of course, so he'll put Cartman in a good mood and maybe squeeze a tip out of the frigid bastard, but really, it's an act that Kenny is looking forward to never being subjected to again once he's out of this shithole town.

Kevin stammers, his cheeks turning barely pink, "Dude, sick! No! I just…don't like him, either. I'm just saying."

Kenny lifts a brow. He doesn't see how somebody as fortunate as Kevin could _possibly_ hate Cartman as much as he does. Kevin does accounting on Cartman's command, for fuck's sake. Kenny fucks people for profit on Cartman's command. The occupations are in two entirely different categories, and as far as Kenny knows, Kevin is doing this financial shit of his own volition.

He goes back to flipping through his comic book, though now it's more of a ruse, because Kenny's too distracted to actually read the print on the pages.

Kevin looms a little closer to Kenny, as if he's decided that Kenny is not going to give him a sexually transmitted disease and it's safe to be nearer. He continues talking, "I'd be concerned if anybody likes Cartman, to be frank."

"I'd be careful what you say," Kenny warns, flipping the page, "he has guys following me."

Kevin pales, "What? Why?"

"I dunno," Kenny shrugs, but he has sort of an idea as to why the beefcakes tail him almost constantly. There was one time – almost a year and a half ago, now – when his sister tried to get him to leave South Park. They made it maybe ten miles into the mountains, toward Karen's apartment in Denver, when the Park County police pulled them over and brought Kenny back to South Park in handcuffs. Cartman picked him up from the county police station. Instead of beating the crap out of Kenny like he'd expected the asshole to, Cartman cuffed Kenny by his foot to Cartman's desk at Polly for three days, only letting him go to work. Kenny thinks he might have preferred the beating to being trapped in Cartman's office, honestly.

It was extremely off-putting to be attached to Cartman's desk while he made underhanded deals with extraordinarily creepy men. Cartman wined and dined them in the sort of way that men in illegal businesses do, with Cuban cigars and very old scotch, and an offer of the services of either Kenny or one of the girls. Typically, they chose one of the girls. But, from time to time, they selected Kenny. Allow Kenny to tell you – those business types, they're the meanest and freakiest in bed, either from the awful things they do for a living, or because of their defunct marriages with spouses that they've come to hate.

"That's fucking creepy," Kevin mumbles. Kenny had almost forgotten that the guy is still in the laundry room with him.

"Mm," Kenny responds, because as creepy as it is to be followed by Cartman's lackeys, he's used to it by now, and he doesn't bother putting up a fight anymore. What would be the point? He owes Cartman a great deal. If the way to pay that debt off fastest is to be a cooperative little whore, then he'll do it.

As if a gift from God, Kenny's phone starts ringing in his pocket. His phone is an old piece of shit, a pay-by-month flip phone, but it's definitely better than nothing. He's had to use to it to get himself out of some sticky situations. He feels a funny little smile rise up on his face when he sees that the person calling is his sister, and flips it open with a warmly spoken, "Hey."

"_Where are you?_"

"What do you mean 'where am I'? I'm at home," Kenny says.

"_No, you're not. I'm in your apartment and you're not here,_" Karen says. She must have used the key that Kenny gave her. He gave her the illegally-made copy of his key after an incident that she will not remember – she'd been on the other side of his apartment door begging for him to let her in, but he'd been too sick to move, and died that way, with her at his door.

The deaths with his sister at his side are the worst. Even though Kenny knows that he'll be back in a handful of hours, if Karen is with him when he dies, he always thinks, _I'm not ready to go yet. _

"I'm doing my laundry," Kenny says, "I'm here. I promise."

"_I'll be down in a sec,_" Karen replies, and before he can even ask why she's not down in Denver working, she kills the call. Kenny sighs, and shoves his phone in his pocket.

Out of all of the McCormicks, Karen has become by far the most successful. She works as a nurse in a hospital down in Denver. Kenny's fucking proud. She told him once that the reason she wanted to go into medicine is because of him, because he 'gets injured' so often. She's studying now to become a doctor. The schooling is goddamned expensive, even with her grants and loans. Kenny helps out as much as he can, yet another expense dipping into his escape fund. But, Karen is more important to him than he is. She deserves success. She deserves to be happy. She doesn't deserve to get pulled back into the world that they grew up in, the world that he lives in.

"Who was that?" asks Kevin.

Kenny answers, "My sister. Not that it's any of your business, asshole."

Kevin holds his hands up in defense and murmurs, "So-_rry_. You're fucking moody."

Karen chooses that moment to burst into the room. Kenny slips off of his perch on the dryer and she throws her arms around his neck, squeezing him close to her. He kisses the top of her head and says, "You look good." She does. From looking at Karen, you'd never guess about the hellhole that she grew up in. Her light brown hair is pulled back into a braid and she is wearing minimal makeup, with a classy-looking cotton dress and denim jacket. She looks like a well-to-do young woman. Kenny, in comparison, looks like her shabby, failed-at-life older brother. Which he is.

She says, "You look a lot better than the last time I saw you, thank _God._" Only then does she notice Kevin Stoley hanging out awkwardly in the corner of the room, where he is pretending not to be listening in on their conversation. She holds a hand over her mouth like she regrets her words.

Kenny says, "It's okay. He's seen me like that. Kevin here works for the fatass, too." He doesn't elaborate that Kevin is not a hooker, but that he takes care of Cartman's money. It'll serve Kevin right if Karen thinks that he's a stripper. Because he's a jerk, most of the time. Probably an aftereffect of being friends with Craig I-am-leaving-you-all-to-find-myself Tucker.

What he is referring to, of course, is looking like he's been beaten to hell. The last time that Karen saw him is also the last time that he died. She'd found him flopped over his couch, still in his work attire (the standard leather pants and heavy makeup, hair all gelled up), with Esther whining beside him. The guy that had fucked him that night had taken everything out of Kenny. He was bruised almost everywhere that there was room, bleeding from where his head had hit the corner of the bed when the client had thrown him backward.

Karen held his head in her lap and cried while he died. It was fucking miserable, and he's grateful that she will never have to remember that shit.

Karen turns and eyes Kevin, like she doesn't trust a guy like him to take proper care of her brother. She takes Kenny's hands and laces her fingers through his, saying softly, "I worry about you."

"I know you do," Kenny responds, "but I'm fine. Really. Why are you even here? Not that I'm not pleasantly surprised, but aren't you on call for the hospital or something?"

"I asked for a couple days off," Karen says, "I needed to make sure you're okay."

"Did somebody indicate to you that I'm not?" Kenny inquires.

Karen shakes her head, drawing him back into another hug. She explains, "I just had this _terrible_ dream that you had died last time that I was here, instead of getting better. I felt like I should drive up and hang out for a bit."

That about stops Kenny's heart. She dreamt about his death? How is that possible? Surely it's just a trick of her mind. She can't know that that happens, not even unconsciously. Right? He hugs her closer and makes sure that she can't see the frown firmly set on his face, and says, "I have to work tonight."

"I know," Karen sighs, "I figured I could just crash on your couch. You can wake me up when you get back. Or call me. You know…if something goes wrong."

Jesus, he hopes that that isn't some sort of terrible omen.

"I thought I'd treat you to some pizza," Karen suggests.

_That_ gets Kenny's attention. One of his few loves in life, he fucking swears, is pizza. Probably because he can't afford to treat himself to a slice most of the time. And he is not above letting his little sister buy him pizza, not at all.

"Would you?" Kenny perks up hopefully, "I have to wait for my shit to be done drying, but we can go after that. Right?"

Karen grins. She kisses him on the cheek and says, "You are the only person I know that gets this excited about pizza."

"I'm also probably the only person you know that can't _afford_ pizza," Kenny responds, but the statement is meant in good humor.

"You can't afford pizza?" Kevin suddenly asks.

Both Karen and Kenny's heads turn sharply. Kenny glowers, feeling like Kevin has intruded on his moment with his sister. Karen is probably the only person in the world that gives a crap about him, that loves him, and here's Cartman's precious little accountant, being a dick. He spits back, "You'd know, wouldn't you? You're Cartman's fucking bookkeeper."

The dryer could not have chosen a more appropriate moment to finish drying his clothes. Kenny dives and wrenches open the door in relief, shoving his clothes into the ugly plastic laundry basket he uses to transport them down here. He snatches his The Incredible Hulk comic off of the top of the machine and says, "Come on, Karen, let's get the fuck out of here."

He glares at Kevin for good measure, because right now, he really dislikes the man. Maybe it's unfounded, but anybody on Cartman's good side is no friend of Kenny's.

After they've dropped Kenny's laundry off in his living room, Karen and Kenny drive to Pizza Hut. Even if Kenny could afford pizza, he probably wouldn't go to Pizza Hut that often. It is filled to the brim with people that he knows and people that know him, namely what he does for a living. Sadly, the only other option is Whistlin' Willy's, which is meant for children.

"I've started seeing somebody," Karen mentions, just as Kenny is taking his first glorious bite of sausage and pepperoni pizza.

Kenny decides to calmly swallow the greasy bite of meaty, cheesy goodness, instead of choking. But he lowers the slice and says, "Excuse me?"

Karen is notorious for having bad taste in men. Not that Kenny is any better. He doesn't date anymore, but back before all his bullshit with drugs started, he'd dated around, always choosing the worst pieces of shit in the history of the human race. Maybe it was because of how they grew up. He's heard statistics before that if you're treated like a waste of space as a kid, that you unintentionally seek out people that will treat you like a waste of space. If Kenny had a dollar for every boyfriend of Karen's that he ended up kicking the crap out of and sent to the curb, he'd be a much richer man.

To contrast, their older brother sits firmly on the other side of the spectrum, which is probably why Kenny and Karen avoid him like plague most of the time. He brings around suspiciously bruised girlfriends, and sometimes Kenny wants to tell those women that he's sorry, that maybe it's not really even Kevin's fault, that he grew up getting thrown around by their dad. That is, until Kevin got bigger than Stuart McCormick. Then Kevin started throwing _him_ around, and sometimes, their mom, too. Their family was just always a clusterfuck of horrible things. Still is. Kenny avoids his parents like the plague. He's fairly certain that they avoid him, too. Stuart never shows up at Polly, and as far as Kenny knows, that man _adores_ strip clubs. Just doesn't want to see his son working in one. That is fucking fine by Kenny. He likes it that way.

Carol McCormick is another matter entirely. Kenny occasionally sees her at the grocery store or shuffling around the church donation bin looking for clothes. He doesn't know where she works these days. Kenny just hopes that she hasn't gone back to helping his dad with meth in the back yard.

When he sees her, his first instinct is always to hide. He's ducked behind racks of potato chips, or behind the pews if he's at the Catholic church on one of the days that they let people come in and take clothes and other things from the donation bins (They're called 'Donation Days,' and Kenny isn't sure whether or not he should be ashamed that he's there every time the church holds one of these events).

Call it mother's intuition, but she manages to fucking _find him_ no matter where he hides. His mother always greets him with a, "Are you hidin' from me, Kenneth McCormick?"

And he'll tend to respond dishonestly, "No," and tack on an excuse about what he was doing ("I was just looking at these Doritos, ma," or, "Just saying my prayers, ma.").

What usually comes afterward is an excruciatingly awkward conversation about how they're doing. Kenny always lies and says that things are going well, that he's fine, that she needn't worry about him, he's got his life under control. She'll lie to him and say the same, that things are going well at work, that she and his father are trying to work some conflict out or another. Inevitably, one of them will bring up how Karen is doing, because she's the only McCormick who's doing something with her life that's worth a damn.

"This one is a good guy, Ken," Karen insists, bringing Kenny back to reality. He feel like he should thank her for that.

Still, he doesn't ever like when Karen tells him that there's a new man around. It's typically bad news. Then there's also the fact the he's reluctant to meet any of them – their first question is always something like, 'Hey man, so what do you do for a living?' to which Kenny will deadpan, 'I'm a stripper.' And they'll laugh, like he's told some hilarious and witty joke, when he's just telling the truth. The glossed-over version of the truth, at that. After all, 'stripper' sounds better than 'I fuck guys on my pimp's command because he paid off my debts to my ex-drug dealer.'

No wonder Karen has bad taste in guys. She also has bad taste in brothers.

"You know why I'm not sure about that, right?" Kenny says, eating his pizza more slowly, now. It's incredible how concern for his sister can kill his appetite.

Karen picks at the mushrooms on her own slice of pizza and responds, "I know, I know. But this one…we've been together for awhile, actually. I didn't know how to tell you, because I know I'm bad at choosing the right people. But this guy, he's – he's great, Ken. I want you to meet him."

That's odd. In the end, Kenny usually ends up having to demand that Karen drag the man to meet him, because he feels the need to inspect them. He thinks back, and realizes that she has not once asked _him_ to meet them. Not even one fucking time.

"What's his name?" Kenny queries slowly, moving onto pizza slice number two.

"He's from here," Karen prefaces.

Kenny narrows his eyes, "That isn't usually a good thing."

"It is this time," she insists.

They eat for awhile in silence, but hearing that Karen's new catch originated from South Park, Colorado, puts him on edge. He finally asks, "Okay. Spit it out. Who is it? It's not Craig, is it?"

"Ew, no," Karen says, "Craig is gay, anyway. We found each other on OKCupid."

"Why the hell were you on OKCupid?" Kenny asks.

"Because! I wanted to be able to read about the kind of person that they are before even talking to them," Karen says, "I'm sick of being so stupid. I was trying to be rational," she fiddles with her necklace, a gold heart on a chain. Only then does Kenny notice that there's a ring on her left hand.

"_You're getting married_?" He exclaims, snatching her hand forward to inspect the bit of jewelry. It looks like it's white gold, with smaller diamonds going along the band. It must have cost a fucking bundle. He demands, "Why didn't you tell me? What the fuck, Karen. I'm your fucking brother. God, I know I'm an embarrassment, but the least you could do is drop me a line when you get fucking engaged to some dude that I haven't even met yet. What the hell?"

"Could you quiet down?" she whispers harshly, "You're making a scene. It only happened yesterday. It was a surprise, Kenny!"

"I still don't know who you're getting married to! Who the fuck is this guy?"

"Clyde," Karen snaps, "Clyde Donovan."

"Clyde?" Kenny's voice winds down to a shocked sort of whimper. Of all the people that Karen could have chosen, he didn't expect it to be _Clyde. _When he was about thirteen, he and Clyde had hung out all the time, looking through their fathers' Playboys or watching something from Kenny's porn collection.

But still, last he'd heard, Clyde is still a nice, if a little dense, guy.

"He's sweet," Karen says, "I love him."

"I – um – I – What does he even do, now?" Kenny squeezes out.

"He does real estate," Karen says, "He's very good at it. They like him there."

Kenny looks down at the table and says, "Okay. Alright. You're getting married. Let me just like, take a second to get this all in."

Karen reaches across the table and pats his hand. He immediately takes her hand and draws her fingers through his, resting his other hand against his forehead. He feels like he might cry, which is ridiculous. It's just that…Karen's his sister, and the only person in his life that he cares about enough to care that she's getting married. He feels foolish, like if she gets married that she'll be being taken away from him. Which is stupid, and Kenny knows that. He just feels possessive and upset.

Karen says gently, "I want you to give me away."

"What about Dad?" Kenny asks.

"He's not invited. Neither is Kevin," Karen replies.

Kenny doesn't want to respond to that, not yet, anyway. He withdraws his hand and clenches it into a fist in his lap while he eats his pizza dejectedly, and Karen pays for their food.

They get into Karen's car without any speaking at all, until Karen finally asks, cranking up the heat, "Aren't you happy for me?" Her voice is so small and so sad.

He can't help it, after that. He rests his forehead against the dashboard and starts to cry.

"Kenny?" she says. She starts rubbing his back, and he feels incredibly stupid. She asks, "Kenny, why are you crying?"

"Because I can't afford a tux," he says tearfully, wiping at his eyes, "I can't afford a wedding. I can't make it what you deserve. I'm poor as shit and I'm not good for fucking anything, I can't –"

"Stop!" Karen shouts, "Stop it. You're good for lots of things. You're –"

"Yeah, fucking people," Kenny says mournfully.

"Stop it. I'm serious," Karen says. She yanks him into a hug and lets him put his head on her shoulder, rubbing his back again. She goes on, "Clyde and his parents are paying for everything. They already said that they would get you your tux. Now stop this. Kenny, you're always taking care of me. Let me take care of you for once. Please."

The conversation comes to a miserable close, and Kenny promises to go to lunch with Karen and Clyde tomorrow at some nice restaurant that Clyde will pay for. He spends the hours following moping about feeling like a worthless piece of shit.

When it starts to get dark, Kenny retreats to his bathroom and slips on his leather pants and his boots. He feels stupid and awkward and horrible when he passes by his sister in this attire. She is sitting in the kitchen, eating a bowl of ramen.

He clears his throat and says, "I won't be back until late."

"Wake me up," she says, "I keep odd hours because of my job, too. You know that."

"You can sleep in my bed, if you want," Kenny offers, even though his bed is only a marginal improvement over sleeping on the couch.

Karen gets up and pulls Kenny into another hug, tugging him close up against her, rocking him a little, even though she's a good number of inches shorter than him and it makes the movement strange. She draws her body up onto her tip toes and kisses his forehead, saying, "Be safe. I love you, okay?"

"Love you too," he says, still feeling miserable. He's made even more miserable by the prospect of having to pretend that he's not miserable, and _even more_ miserable with the knowledge that he's probably be going to be spending a few hours in an upstairs bedroom pleasing Stephen Stotch.

**o.o.o.o**

It's three in the morning when Kenny gets out of there, smelling of sex and covered in glitter that originated from an unknown source. He wraps his coat around him and pulls out a cigarette from the fresh pack that he'd purchased on his way over to Polly earlier in the night. He'd bought a lottery ticket, too. He always does when he buys cigarettes. He knows logically that he's wasting his money with every ticket that he purchases, but Kenny can't let go of the ridiculous fantasy that maybe he'll win millions and he'll be able to buy a house for himself and his dog, someplace far away from here. Maybe near an ocean. He's never seen the ocean. He'll have all the pizza and comic books and blues records that he wants, and nobody will bother him ever again.

It's a silly dream. He knows that. But he knows that he'll never let go of it, and so Kenny just keeps buying lottery tickets.

He wants to go home. He wants a hug from his sister, because she's the only person who loves him and the only person that he loves back.

At least those are achievable dreams.

Everything and everybody else can just fuck off.

As if on cue, a motorcycle pulls up next to Kenny, engine rumbling. On it is sitting Butters Stotch, though Kenny did not see him in the club tonight. He's wearing his leather jacket and gloves and fruity snowflake scarf.

"You need a ride?"

**o.o.o.o**

**Sorry for the small delay! I actually left my house this weekend *collective gasp.* **

**Thank you to my wonderful reviewers: KeliMaxwell, KirstenTheDestroyer, sadpeople56, Mallory, Miroir Twin, TheAwesome15, and Kuutamolla.**

**Enthusiasm around here wanes fast, I see.**

**Anyway, here I am going to plug a fic that I firmly believe everybody ever should read: Bright Lights and the Big City by Chasing Rabbits. It's a Bunny fic, though I am of the firm opinion that anybody in the history of the SP fandom ever should look it up and read the fuck out of it, because it's beautiful. Yes? Yes.**


	5. Fishbowl

**Chapter Track: Wish You Were Here (cover) – Rasputina **

Butters spends a good deal of his time feeling especially stupid. He doesn't know if he's _actually_ stupid or not, but he does know that he's incurably socially awkward. He'd been wondering why Kenny outright refused to hold onto Butters' waist when they rode his Harley (her name is Christine, but he doesn't tend to tell people that for fear they'll think he's a weirdo), like a normal damned human being.

But tonight, after Butters had driven into the parking lot of the dirty-looking apartment complex where Kenny lives, and Kenny let go of the hem of his leather jacket – he'd tried to give him a hug. After all, they were sort of becoming friends again, or so he liked to think.

Apparently, Kenny didn't think so, because he'd shoved Butters off of him and said in the kind of voice a person uses when they really mean something, "_Do not fucking touch me_."

He'd felt awful, of course, despite not knowing exactly what he had done wrong. He stammered, liked he always does when he's stressed out or embarrassed (and he was both in this particular situation), "Ah, J-Jesus, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to u-upset you." Butters didn't know what else to say, and had spent the next several seconds trying stupidly to come up with more appropriate words.

Fortunately, Kenny chose then to speak again. He looked angry and frustrated, but his words came out all calm and steady. Butters wonders how he can do that.

"I – uh, it's not your fault. I just don't like being touched, 'cept if it's my sister," Kenny had rubbed the back of his neck and avoided Butters' eyes, the way you do if you've done something wrong – except that Kenny hadn't done anything wrong.

"Aw, geez," Butters had responded, "I'm real sorry. I won't do it again."

It makes sense to Butters that Kenny wouldn't like to be touched. Last he'd ever truly hung around Kenny, they'd been fifteen, and at that point, Kenny was more than happy to be touchy-feely and cuddly. Butters thinks that Kenny might have gotten a kick out of surprising Butters in high school, by coming up from behind and wrapping his arms around Butters, squeezing. Butters had tended to shriek when somebody snuck up on him like that, though when Kenny did it, he hadn't minded as much as Eric popping out from behind the lockers or Clyde sticking out his foot so that Butters would trip and drop his books.

But now, Kenny works a _really_ icky job. Butters wishes that he could say that he wasn't horrified when his dad dragged him along to Eric's club, but he felt so _awful _when he discovered Kenny works at Cartman's stupid strip joint. Then later, figuring out that Kenny has to cater to his dad. That knowledge...is embarrassing. Fucking hell. Butters' dad is pretty gross and a gigantic asshole. He'd been surprised, at first, knowing that his dad doesn't like the company of ladies. It made a lot more sense that he'd be there for a guy. For Kenny.

That knowledge makes Butters feel kind of slimy. Because of his father, though. Not Kenny. Poor Kenny. He probably doesn't like his job much if he hates touching this profoundly.

"S'okay," Kenny had mumbled, "Just don't like, hug me. Or touch me. Like at all. It's not you. It's the touching." Kenny's words had been all choppy and uncertain, like he didn't really know how to explain himself.

And Butters had still had the urge to pat his shoulder or hug him and tell him that it'll be alright. That would have just made Kenny upset, though, so instead, Butters had shuffled his feet and stared at the ground, wondering if he should walk Kenny to his door or not.

So he'd asked, "D'ya want me to walk you up?"

Kenny had shaken his head, smiling in this strange, sad way that made Butters' stomach kind of sore just looking at it. Kenny responded, "Nah. I can walk alone."

"Alright," Butters grinned, hoping maybe a happy face would cheer Kenny up and said, "You have a good night, Kenny."

Kenny hadn't said anything at first. He'd merely nodded and turned on his heel. But before he disappeared inside the guts of the apartment building and before Butters revved up Christine, he'd glanced back and said, "Take it easy, dude." Those words reminded Butters of the Kenny he knew a long time ago. The one that smiled a lot more and did a lot more crazy shit just to entertain his friends (even though those same things had always made Butters sweat with fear – things like jumping off of the roof of their high school and into a snow drift).

Kenny's different now. Butters supposes that he shouldn't expect anything else. It's not a bad different, really. It's more that Kenny's more muted than he was before…well, before everything went wrong. Butters still wonders what happened. For years, he couldn't get the image of Kenny wandering into classes looking like a skeleton, with purplish shadows underneath his eyes. But if Butters smiled at Kenny, he'd always smile back at Butters, even if his smile looked strained and tired.

Instead of driving directly home, Butters rides to the grocery store, like he told his mother he'd be doing in the first place – she'd woken up at the sound of him putting his shoes on, and going to get food was the only excuse he'd been able to come up with on such short notice. And right now, his mom's too fucked up to realize that it's damned weird that he would be getting groceries at three in the morning.

He really shouldn't be going out this much – it's just that – well, actually, what is it? He's happy to see that Kenny's better than when Butters left. He enlisted in almost the same breath that he graduated high school, and hadn't ever intended to come back to South Park.

He actually hates it here. He liked where he was, in a nice apartment in a suburb of Denver, not too close to the city, but close enough that he could get there within twenty minutes. Butters at first thought that he'd prefer living outside of Colorado, but after he'd been discharged due to his wrecked up hands, he'd wandered through the States on his bike, finding no place quite like the state that he grew up in. So, it wasn't Colorado that he'd wanted to get away from, it was South Park.

Tragically, he'd had to come back. It seems that Butters must have been the fabric holding his parents together. He was the thing that they could agree on – a no-good, rotten failure of a son. When he'd left, whatever once had been between Linda and Stephen Stotch had fallen to shreds.

Two weeks ago, Butters received a call that his mom was in Hell's Pass, and there was nobody but him to pay her bills and take care of her.

She'd slit her wrists.

His dad had finally left her.

In a way, Butters is relieved, but his mother is also in no mental state to handle things like her husband of nearly thirty years to leave her.

So he returned to South Park.

Because sometimes, you gotta sacrifice your own happiness to make sure that the people you love are okay. Even if those people don't quite love you back. Or love you back at all, really. The woman did try to drown him as a child – not that he'd realized what was going on at the time.

But she needs somebody to take care of her now, and Butters is the only one around willing to take on the job.

Still, that doesn't mean that he doesn't dread going back to the house sometimes. He hates it in there. It reminds him too much of being a kid, and he hates remembering being a kid. For a couple nights in a row, he's been sitting outside on the porch instead of sleeping, because he couldn't sleep if he tried. And believe Butters when he says that he tried like heck to sleep in his old bedroom. He can't do it. Everything about that room gives him nightmares. The smell. The spaceship sheets. The glow-in-the-dark plastic stars pasted to the ceiling. The spelling bee trophy from the sixth grade. The framed Honor Roll certificates. Butters especially hates awards and trophies, because they were never good enough. His parents hadn't cared how well he did, they'd just wanted him to _do better. _

This is why he lingers in the grocery store, pretending to look up and down the aisles for ingredients for tomorrow night's meal.

Actually, maybe he shouldn't pretend. Maybe he should distract himself. What's something simple he could make? He doesn't want to spend too long making the food. His mother doesn't care anyway. He wonders if she even tastes the food that he makes for her, or just eats it numbly.

Damn it. He's thinking about his mom again, instead of thinking about dinner.

Quiche. He could make quiche. Quiche isn't that hard. Would his mom be mad if he put some vegetables in it? She does prefer things plain. Maybe he could make half of it with extra ingredients for himself, and leave half just cheese and egg.

Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.

Instead of feeling glad that he managed to distract himself for five seconds, Butters realizes that now that he's decided what he's going to make, he's that much closer to having to go back home.

Crap.

Butters finds himself mashing his knuckles together and shuffling his feet as he checks out, watching his items get scanned one by one, and getting closer and closer to being back in that house. Maybe he should have asked Kenny if he could stay over. Kenny's apartment is kind of grungy, but it smells like Kenny and there's a perfectly good couch that he could sleep on.

Butters loads his groceries into the back of Christine and decides that, as tempting as it may be, he has a job to do. That job is to take care of his mother. If he doesn't come home, she can't sleep.

When he steps into the house, he comes in quietly, silently hoping that maybe his mom's exhaustion has gotten to her and she's fallen asleep.

But that didn't happen, of course.

She's sitting in the front room, wide-eyed, in her rocking chair, slowly pushing it back and forth. It makes a shrill creaking noise every time she pulls forward. Butters hates that noise, always has.

"Where have you been, Butters?" she asks, not even turning her eyes to meet his. No, her face is blank, and she's staring off at the wall, into space, maybe. Just not at him.

"Ah, I told you I'd be at the grocery store. Remember, mom?" he tries, speaking softly. He lifts the reusable grocery bag in his hand to illustrate (he keeps a couple of reusable bags in the back of Christine. They come in awful handy).

"Oh," she murmurs. She turns her head to him at last, her eyes looking a little unfocused, "So you did."

Butters sets the bag of groceries on the coffee table, figuring that he'll put them away later, and says, "It's bedtime, mom. Do you want me to help you find your pajamas?"

Linda shakes her head and stands. Robotically, she makes her way upstairs, but not before turning back to look at him. She says, "It's bedtime, Butters," just like he said to her only moments ago, "Do you need me to help you put on your pajamas?"

Butters frowns and says, "I'm twenty-five, mom." He feels like crying. He wonders if she sees adult Butters, or if Linda Stotch is looking at her son and seeing him as an eight-year-old.

Whatever the case, he follows her upstairs and makes sure that she brushes her teeth and flosses, tucking her into bed and shutting off the standing lamp in the corner of the room. He has to check the drawers in the bathroom every night – the doctor says that he always has to check for places that she might be hiding things she can use to hurt herself again. He's found things already, even though he's been back in South Park for less than a fortnight. Yesterday, he found her trying to dismantle her Schick razor to get the blades out. Luckily, Butters is about twice her size now, and wrestled the razor from her with little effort. Partly this is because Linda hardly eats – she's wasting away. But it's also because Butters goes to the gym whenever the opportunity presents itself, even though he can't lift weights anymore because of his hands.

Linda won't go to sleep until she hears Butters go into his bedroom, so he does just that – but he also does what he's been doing for the past few nights. He opens his window and climbs outside, shimmying down the tree in their yard, in a manner that would probably appear ridiculous to any onlooking third party. It's freezing out, but it's better than being in his old room.

Butters falls asleep on the wicker porch swing.

**o.o.o.o**

Kenny is trying to look his best. He's also trying to convince himself that the reason he's trying to look his best is for Karen, and not because he wants to put on some semblance of having his life together for Clyde Donovan, apparent up-and-coming real estate agent. Fuck, why does everybody else have to have their shit together?

Kenny pulls on his nicest pair of jeans. They still have a hole in one knee, but it's small, so maybe Clyde won't notice it.

"We're not going to any fancy places, right?" Kenny sticks his head out of his bedroom to question his sister, who is sitting at his kitchen table, reading a book. He wonders if it's for school or for pleasure. Karen has always read for fun, which frankly, baffles him a little.

"Not too fancy, why?"

"Because I don't own any pants without holes in them except for my work pants," he says.

"You're worrying again," Karen says pointedly. She marks her book and sets it down, before stalking over to inspect him.

Kenny is currently a mess. Though freshly showered, he is shoeless, sockless and shirtless. He has on only the pair of jeans he deemed suitable, which he hasn't bothered to button yet.

"Why in God's name did you wait until the last minute to get ready?" Karen asks exasperatedly. Before Kenny can answer, she throws her hands up in the air and slips past him, shuffling through his not-exactly-organized closet.

"It looks like a bomb went off in here," complains Karen, "How can you even find anything?"

After a collection of exasperated noises and the clicking noise of hangers colliding with each other, Karen gives a successful, '_Aha._' She holds up her prize so that Kenny can see.

"Aw, fuck no," he protests, staring in abject horror at the navy and yellow polo shirt monstrosity before him, "I'll look like a fucking melvin."

"Why do you even have it, then? Isn't a dinner with your sister's fiancé exactly the time that you'd wear something like this?" Karen asks.

Damn it. Kenny hasn't worn a collared shirt since he was like, thirteen, and being forcibly taken to church by his mother. He's worn _only_ a collar – but that's kind of in a different category. He glares, but snatches the thing out Karen's grip and tugs it over his head. It smells kind of musty, probably from being in the back of his closet for so long. He rues the day he bought this shirt – he remembers it, too. He was thrifting in Denver after a larger paycheck, and he'd thought to himself _what if I need to look decent for something. _There are only so many cheesy souvenir t-shirts one man can own, after all, and Kenny owns quite a few.

He wishes that he had some sort of cologne or body spray to get the smell of dust out of these clothes, but he's always considered those to be frivolous purchases, never needing anything more than shampoo and deodorant.

"You look handsome," Karen says, "But you've got a little eyeliner left over. Let me get it." She sticks her thumb in her mouth and rubs underneath his eye, where last night's makeup got stuck.

Kenny's nicest shoes are his work shoes, and he definitely doesn't want to fuck those up, so he sticks with the same pair of beaten-up Converse that he's had for four years. They mess up his put-together appearance a little, since the canvas has torn from the rubber sole and you can see his striped socks through the gap.

"Try and behave," Karen says, as Kenny slips on his jacket. When he scowls at her, she says sweetly, "For me?" which just makes him glower more.

"What if he asks me where I work?" Kenny inquires, as they start down the five flights of stairs toward Karen's car, "They always ask."

"I told him not to," Karen says.

Kenny eyes her, "Won't that just make him want to know more?"

"He was very curious, yes, but I told him that it's none of his goddamned business and if you want him to know, you'll tell him," Karen responds.

"The Clyde I knew in high school would spend this entire lunch badgering me about it," Kenny mumbles. They make their way to the car. It's a chilly day, but since the sun is out and unobstructed by clouds, it seems much warmer. He even takes his jacket off when he slides into the passenger's side of the car.

"If that Clyde wants to get married, then he won't," Karen sniffs.

Kenny can't help but grin at this. Sometimes he forgets that his sister can hold her own, that's she's strong and capable. But this is one of those moments in which he remembers that fact – and wonders if she's even more strong and capable than him. After all, she grew up in the same shithole he did, and she came out of it a better person. He came out of it as a hot mess. He's okay in general, of course. It's just that he is a rentboy and his sister is going to be a doctor. A damned good one, too, he'd bet.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Karen asks, lifting a brow.

Kenny's grin only grows wider. He says honestly, "I'm proud of you."

She smiles to herself, not looking at him, and replies, "I'm proud of you too."

Kenny almost asks, _What the hell for?_ But he knows what the answer is. When he got deep, deep into drugs, when he got kicked out of their house for getting caught sucking that random guy's dick, when he ended up on the street so fucked up he couldn't even think, Karen lost him. She told him, once. When she thought he was sleeping. It was a few years ago, after he'd cleaned himself up. He'd made it to her high school graduation – even though he'd never made it to his own. She was so happy to see him after the ceremony that she straight-up sobbed for a whole half hour.

Two days later, he'd shown her around his then-new apartment, and they'd fallen asleep on his mattress together. Before they did, though, she said, "I'm so glad I have my brother back."

So she's proud of him. Kenny feels guilty that his sister is proud of him, to be honest. He's just managed to do things that normal people should be able to do – hold down a job (even if it isn't legal in its entirety), pay his rent each month, feed himself.

Essentially, she's proud that he didn't turn out like their parents.

She's proud that neither of them ended up like Kevin.

She's proud that they made it out of growing up a McCormick alive. Well, sort of – in his case, anyway. He died several times growing up a McCormick. But he came back, so.

Karen parks in the lot of Olive Garden, and Kenny almost laughs, being that it's the place where their mother worked for most of their childhood. He doesn't know what Carol does now, but he's gathered that she was fired for getting caught smoking a joint while she bussed the tables after closing. He doesn't blame her for the joint-smoking part of that, just for the 'at work' part of it. Really, how stupid could you be?

Clyde is already waiting for them at a table near the front. He looks great, and Kenny is torn between feeling glad for his sister and irritated for himself. The guy still carries a little extra weight in his gut, but he looks happy. His hair is neatly trimmed, his cheeks rosy, his smile wide. He looks like a guy on a Christmas card, for fuck's sake – all cheerful and dressed in a sort of ugly red sweater.

When Clyde sees Karen, he stands and kisses her. Kenny thinks he might gag, and tries not to let that show on his face.

He spots Kenny and keeps his smile tactfully pasted to his face, but it seems to dim a little. Whether it's from the fact that he's marrying the sister of Kenny McCormick, ex-drug addict extraordinaire, and must therefore tolerate his presence, or that Kenny looks shabby and probably miserable, he cannot tell.

Clyde ducks into give Kenny a friendly hug. This sort of thing immediately fills Kenny with dread, and a slick, horrible feeling inside that makes him feel like he's going to end up being attacked. Maybe that doesn't make sense, but he can't fucking stand people getting in his personal space when they don't need to be there. He pushes Clyde back in the exact moment that he sees Karen try to warn her fiancé.

"Don't _do_ that," Kenny says, hugging himself.

Clyde looks stricken, and like he's fumbling for something to say, when Karen laces her fingers through his and whispers in his ear – something Kenny can't hear, but what he assumes is a short explanation about Kenny's distaste for touching.

Clyde nods as she speaks and says, "Uh, sorry, bro."

Kenny wonders if Clyde remembers how huggy they both used to be. It seems that Clyde has maintained his huggy-ness, however, whereas Kenny has reverted to the opposite.

"So, uh, how have you been?" Kenny asks awkwardly, as he scans the menu. He's secretly glad to be taken to a reasonably nice place. He knows that Olive Garden is fairly middle-class, but he feels like he eats like a king here, compared to his steady diet of cereal and top ramen.

He's also hoping to make up for his mini freak-out. It's the second time it's happened within the space of twenty four hours, and that makes him feel self-conscious and kind of stupid, like he should be okay with more people touching him than Karen. He doesn't even let his own mother touch him, for Christ's sake. The one time she tried, he flinched away so hard that he hit her. It was an accident, but considering his father, she doesn't get quite that close to him anymore.

Clyde looks relieved that he didn't have to start the conversation, and says, "I've been great, man. College was like, super hard, 'cause of being on my own and everything, but I'm finally starting to get the hang of it."

Clyde always seemed a little unstable when doing things by himself, Kenny thinks. It's probably a product of having his parents do almost everything for him and then just dropping him when he turned eighteen.

Kenny wonders what he would have turned out like if he'd had parents like Clyde's. He's met them a couple times. Most of what he's gathered is that they're a little overbearing, extremely affectionate, but mostly just cuddly and loving. Like a Christmas card. Like Clyde looks like right now. Clyde grew up living in a goddamn Christmas Card.

Kenny really, really hopes that his sister will get to live like that, too.

"What about you?" Clyde asks, the tone in his voice suggesting that he's almost afraid to say those words.

"Hmm," Kenny says thoughtfully, "I stopped shooting up, I have an apartment and a one-eyed dog. So, pretty good." He doesn't bother clarifying that he quit heroin like six years ago, so it hardly counts as news – because it would be news to Clyde. He hasn't been around much, as far as Kenny knows. Maybe he just never gave a shit about what Clyde did. Now he has to give a shit, because Clyde put a fucking ring on his baby sister's finger.

Karen kicks him under the table. Clyde goes wide-eyed.

They order their food and descend into what is mostly silence, and some of Karen trying to make conversation. Kenny knows he promised to behave himself, and that he's acting like a surly child. The thing is, Clyde is well-off and happy like he's always been, and that pisses him off on some rudimentary level of himself. That Clyde can take care of Karen better than Kenny can. His only comfort is knowing that Karen can take care of herself better than the both of them.

"Whoa," Clyde says, "Is that _Butters_?"

Kenny turns his head to peek – it is. Same leather jacket, same snowflake scarf. The only difference is that he's holding the hand of his mother.

"Hey, fellas!" he exclaims when he sees them, "What are you doing here? I haven't seen you in ages, Clyde."

"He's marrying my sister," Kenny says grumpily.

Butters' whole face lights up, and he asks, "Really? Congratulations!"

Kenny is less impressed by Butters' enthusiasm at the news of this happy union, and more impressed by the fact that Linda Stotch hasn't said a word. He doesn't think that she's blinked either. Quite frankly, that freaks him the fuck out. It's common knowledge around South Park that Linda's a little kooky and not-okay on her best days, and fucking insane on her worst.

A lot of things abruptly make sense when he sees the bandages on Linda's wrists, just barely poking out from the sleeves of her wool coat.

"What are you doing here, Butters?" asks Clyde.

Butters misinterprets 'here' as 'Olive Garden,' instead of how Clyde meant it, which is 'South Park,' and says, "Ah, well, my mom doesn't much like my cooking. I was hoping if I took her out to eat, she'd have a little more appetite. Huh, mom?"

Linda doesn't answer, and Butters frowns down at her. There's a lot in the frown that Kenny doesn't often see in Butters: Uncertainty, disappointment, maybe even a little fear. There are recognizable emotions, too: The eagerness to please, and hopefulness. Leave it to Butters to hope that he can make his psycho mother a little less psycho.

"I'd best be goin' then, guys, but it was nice chatting with you," he offers up a renewed smile and tacks on, "Congrats again, you two."

"Was he wearing a leather jacket?" Karen questions, staring after Butters as he pulls out his mother's chair for her and helps her sit.

Clyde replies, "Yeah, but he's still just as much of a melvin."

"Hey, fuck you," Kenny finds himself saying, though he's not sure why. He thinks it might be because of Butters' hands. Seeing them makes any insult to Butters feel like a personal affront to Kenny. This does not logically make sense, but Kenny rolls with it anyway. He goes on, "Dude, that guy has been through so much shit. Don't be an asshole."

This, naturally, makes the rest of lunch even more awkward. Instead of talking, they just eat in silence. Karen occasionally leans over to fix Clyde's hair or remove a stray string from his sweater. When she does that, Kenny realizes that Clyde isn't taking care of Karen – Karen is taking care of Clyde. That makes sense. He's the type to need somebody to always look after him, always keep him in check, always be there when he needs somebody to hug him. Karen is good at doing those things. She learned it from having to take care of herself, maybe. Kenny doesn't want to think about the shit she went through when he was gone.

He'll let Karen know that Clyde has his stamp of approval.

After that, he watches Butters. He's reading the menu off to his mom, or at least that's what it looks like he's doing. Linda isn't saying anything in return. Kenny doesn't like the helpless expression that finds its way onto Butters face at this problem. It makes Kenny feel helpless, too. This weird sense of empathy towards Butters is freaking him out, to be completely honest.

"Kenny?" Karen says, bringing him back down to earth, "We're ready to go. Do you want a box for your leftovers?"

Kenny nods numbly, shaking himself out of his strange train of thought.

"What was that all about?" asks Karen, when they're heading toward her car, "Do you have a boner for Butters effing Stotch?"

Funny, he hadn't considered that yet. Kenny hesitates before answering, and replies, "I don't think so."

"Then what the hell is with you?" she demands. She doesn't sound angry, necessarily, just confused.

Kenny shrugs, buckling himself in. He responds, "He grew up like we did."

"He did not," Karen retorts.

"Yeah, alright, his folks are better-off than ours, but they give me the creeps, okay? It's like they don't love him at all. Sometimes it's that way with us, but if mom and dad are being tools, then we've at least got each other, don't we? He doesn't have any brothers or sisters."

"So his childhood was hard. You usually have that 'get over it,' attitude," Karen says matter-of-factly. And she's right. Shit. He does tend to think that people should just get over their strife and just fucking fix it by whatever means necessary, because that's what he's had to do.

Kenny doesn't know. He doesn't understand what his brain is doing, and so he says, "I guess I just find him interesting. He's so fucking _happy._"

"We're happy," Karen softly says.

"You are," Kenny responds.

"You're not happy?"

"Karen, in case you've forgotten, I am a prostitute. My body is the property of Eric Cartman. I am not happy. Life's not bad, I guess. It's better than it used to be. But I'm not happy," Kenny says.

Karen gives a quiet little sigh and starts the car.

They don't talk about it anymore after that.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to these marvelous people: Miroir Twin, Chasing Rabbits, Lying Honesty, conversefreak3, TheAwesome15, KeiMaxwell, prettyoddrydonfan, alouetta, Mallory, theyellowsky, the letter kaye, and Kuutamolla. Your reviews always make my day brighter. C: **


	6. Okay, If You Insist

**Chapter Track: Here We Go Again – Pixie Lott**

When Kenny ends up like this – in an upstairs room in Polly, alone, with a client that turns out to be a sadist – he tries not to think about anything. He tries to keep his mind blank. If he thinks of good things when he's here, they'll feel ruined to him, somehow. Either that, or he'll just feel dirtier, because he'll wonder whether or not he deserves the good things that come to mind.

So he doesn't think of Karen.

He doesn't think of his dog.

He doesn't think of comic books, or old blues records, or pizza, or his old friends from high school.

Kenny keeps his mind at a blank buzz, allowing nothing to enter it but white noise and nothing to exit but fake moans and gruff dirty talk.

It's only a belt, after all. It's not like Kenny's on the ground with somebody's shoe kicking into his stomach so hard that he can't breathe. Belts aren't so bad. He's dealt with belts before and he will no doubt deal with them again. He just wishes that he could shout, because it hurts. It doesn't hurt as badly as plenty of things he's endured, so he knows he can get through this. But that doesn't stop it from hurting.

Kenny accidentally starts to think of Butters.

Not because of the belt slamming against his back, really – more the deliverer of the blows: Stephen Stotch.

When Kenny was little and did something stupid (and he did a plethora of stupid things), sometimes his dad would take a belt to him. Not for long, and not like this, but it happened. It makes Kenny wonder if the same thing happened to Butters. It makes Kenny question if Stephen Stotch did hit his son like this, did it go on this long? Did he hit him this hard? Kenny feels like he's been sitting here, on his hands and knees, for hours. Beyond that, he doesn't feel much of anything, except that he knows that he's bleeding. He started bleeding awhile ago.

Stotch is angry because he couldn't get it up. Kenny didn't want to say the usual things one would say to an older man who can make himself hard anymore. He didn't say anything snarky, like, _let's get you a prescription for Viagra, then, eh? _Or something vaguely comforting, like, _it's okay, it happens all the time. Don't sweat it. _He said nothing. He feels that choice may have been best. He feels like Stephen Stotch is on this constant razor-thin edge of calm, and if you tip him just barely one way or the other, he'll explode.

Kenny feels like Stephen Stotch would not hesitate to kill him.

It would be more frightening if he could die permanently.

Or maybe that's a soothing thought. Kenny isn't sure.

As Stotch keeps the blows coming, as Kenny bleeds more and tries to think less, the man keeps talking. He maintains a constant stream of degradation, clearing getting off on the words that flow from his lips, "You're a whore. You're my whore. You love being my whore, you fucking worthless slut."

Kenny mindlessly agrees with these things, mumbling out whining affirmations. _Yes, I am your whore. Yes, I love being your whore. Yes, I am a worthless slut._

By the time that Stotch has worn himself down, Kenny can't wait to leave. He's dying to get out of here. His only problem is that Stotch left the room – left him here, and he's attached to the bedposts. His arms are sore from being tugged around. He'll have bruises on his wrists when somebody finally gets the fuck up here and gets these belts off of him.

He'd be more upset if this wasn't routine. But it is routine, and so there's no use in being upset.

Stotch hasn't been able to get it up for a couple weeks, now. So, instead of fucking, they've been doing this.

Kenny lets his head hang, wondering if he'll have to fall asleep like this. It isn't as if that hasn't happened before. He's been left up here all night more than once.

The universe must have heard his silent pleading for somebody to find him, though, because the door to the bedroom creaks open. Kenny turns his head and sees, with gushing relief in his gut, that it's Bebe.

She says, "Goddamn," very simply, because in a situation such as this, there really are no other words to say. No platitude will help Kenny, because in a couple nights, he'll be back in this room, with the welts from the last time opened back up and bleeding again. Mercedes has to cover them in makeup before they take the floor each night. He hates that. Having other people's hands on him.

"Please get these off of me," he says hoarsely.

Bebe is careful to keep the contact to a minimum while she unbuckles his wrists and says, "Y'alright?"

"Peachy," he replies, massaging his wrists gratefully once they've been freed.

"This is getting out of hand," Bebe says, her eyes sweeping over the damage on his back, something that Kenny doesn't want to see.

"You think?" he replies sarcastically, "Fuck, I just want to go home. Can you help me, uh." Kenny pauses. He doesn't know why it's so hard to ask for help cleaning himself up. Maybe it's because he actually despises the process. Unfortunately, Bebe's the only one that he'll trust with the job. He does care about the girls – there's something that he'll always have with them – but he's not really they're not as strong allies as Bebe. He doesn't know why he thinks that. Maybe it's because he and the girls get their asses whooped on a regular basis, and Bebe is the one doing the whooping when shit goes bad.

"Sure thing, sweetie," Bebe tells him. He likes that he doesn't even have to say the words 'clean up my back,' that she just knows without words.

They have a first aid kit in this room for this very purpose. It's hidden under the bed, so as not to make the atmosphere less aesthetically pleasing to clients of Polly. Bebe shimmies underneath the massive frame of the bed to retrieve it.

Kenny hisses at the sting of pain when she starts rubbing down his back with anti-bacterial formula, though he likes to concentrate on that sensation instead of her hands, which seem to be all over him when they're this close to each other. She tries to make it quick, though, for both their sakes. Bebe bandages up the worst of it, where the skin is broken.

When she's done, she says, "All finished. You go home and get some sleep now, baby."

"Mmph," Kenny agrees halfheartedly.

He takes the back stairs down to the dressing room to gather his things, even though it's late into the night and there shouldn't be any customers left. You can never be too careful around here, and the patrons of this joint are shockingly concerned if they see one of the employees wandering around with evident injuries.

As he prowls down the hallway, Kenny is stopped by a shout.

"Ken? Ken!"

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" demands Kenny, when Butters skids up to Kenny's side.

Butters, however, does not answer his question. Instead, he stares at Kenny's back and says, "That a belt that did that?"

Kenny doesn't know what he was expecting to come out of the guy's mouth, but it wasn't that. Maybe it was something more along the lines of, 'Gee whiz, what happened to your back?' or 'Oh hamburgers, that looks like it must hurt.' But Butters knows exactly what happened already. Kenny concludes that his Stotch belt theories must hold true.

At first, Kenny can't decide how to respond. He eventually opts for, "Butters, seriously. What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I was worried for you," Butters supplies, "It's past four in the mornin', Ken. You're usually outside by three thirty at the latest. So I came inside."

For the past month, Butters has been giving Kenny rides home from work. Kenny stopped resisting and/or bitching after about the fifth time that Butters pulled up next to Kenny on his Harley (which, Kenny has been informed, is named Christine). To be honest, Kenny kind of likes being able to get home sooner, even if Butters tends to be a bit of a lingerer. Butters likes to sit on his couch and start up and endless stream of chatter while cuddling with Esther. To Kenny's irritation, he thinks that his pitbull may like Butters more than she likes Kenny.

"I'm fine," Kenny says shortly, "Just gotta get my shit."

To his chagrin, Butters doesn't dismiss himself and say he'll wait for Kenny outside, he trails after Kenny like a puppy, into the dressing room. Kenny pulls on his t-shirt and slips his winter coat over that, listening to Butters out of one ear as he goes on about something. Kenny thinks he's talking about baking, but he isn't really paying attention. He's tired tonight. He just wants to crawl into bed and forget everything.

The intensity of this feeling heightens when, just as he and Butters are exiting the dressing room, Cartman's voice drawls behind them, "Poor boy, I need a minute."

Kenny doesn't sigh, he doesn't swear, he doesn't shout – even though he wants to do all of these things. Instead, he freezes and tells Butters, "Sorry. I'll be out in awhile if you still wanna give me a ride home."

"A'course I'll wait for you," Butters says, too brightly for somebody that's awake at four in the fucking morning.

Cartman closes the doors to his office as soon as Kenny enters. He doesn't make a move to sit down at his desk, an action that signals to Kenny that this conversation will be thankfully brief.

Cartman narrows his piggy eyes and asks, "What are you doing with fucking _Butters_?"

Kenny didn't really expect this question. He might have thought that Cartman might be telling him that he's going to ask Stephen Stotch to lay off the belt a little, but Cartman doesn't resort to that unless he thinks that his people are going to be irreparably damaged. Instinctively, Cartman knows that Kenny can take a belt.

"What are you talking about?" Kenny asks.

"You've been hanging around him a little too much, if you ask me," Cartman supplies, "I'm looking out for you, Kinny. You're his father's whore. I'm just saying, watch your step."

"Uh," Kenny manages, "I'll keep that in mind, boss."

"See that you do," Cartman nods.

Kenny waits for a beat, and then queries, "Can I go now?"

Cartman shifts his weight, sweeps his eyes over Kenny, and replies, "Yeah, get the fuck out of here."

Kenny exits Cartman's office, scowling. What does Cartman care if he hangs around Butters, anyway? And it hasn't been _that much. _Besides, Butters is nice. Kenny doesn't mind his company because Butters is like, the anti-asshole. He's the opposite of everything in Kenny's life, and Kenny's life is a shithole. So, yeah, he's hanging around Butters.

And just to spite the fatass, he'll continue to fucking do so.

Butters is waiting for Kenny just outside on the street. Like always, Kenny climbs behind him and grabs onto the edge of his jacket and they speed off.

And like every night, Butters asks cheerfully, "Do you want me to walk you to your door?"

Sometimes Kenny answers that yes, he would like Butters to walk him to his door. Mostly, he tells Butters to just go home. Tonight, he says something entirely different. He asks, "Uh, do you wanna chill, or something?" Kenny is still in pain, and his back is totally wrecked – but he's used to this kind of pain. And, honestly, he has this weird notion in his mind that having Butters around for a little longer might cheer him up. It's not an unfounded idea.

Butters sort of stares, having clearly not expected this to come from Kenny's mouth. He cocks his head slightly to the left and asks, "Uh, really?"

"Yes, really," Kenny responds, "Otherwise I wouldn't have said it."

Butters' face breaks out into a shy grin. He says, "I, uh, I've got some movies with me – or, um, maybe we could play a card game, or –"

"Dude," Kenny says, "Slow down. My DVD player is broken, so I think movies are out. But I can like, make coffee or something?"

"I have my laptop with me," Butters says brightly, "and I got, uh, Tangled and Wall-E, too." When Kenny blinks at Butters for a moment too long, he tacks onto the end of his sentence, "I know they're kid movies, but they're awfully good, and you look like you had a long night, and uh, Disney movies always cheer me up. But maybe they don't cheer you up. T-That's fine. We don't have to watch them." His face turns pink, like he's committed some cardinal sin by enjoying children's movies.

Kenny says, "Calm down, dude. We can watch something on your laptop, sure."

Looking relieved, Butters flips up the back of Christine's seat and pulls out a plain navy blue backpack and slings it over his shoulder.

Kenny changes into regular clothing while Butters sets pulls his laptop out, setting it on top of Kenny's television. As Kenny is wiggling into some sweatpants and a hoodie, Butters calls, "Which one do you wanna watch?"

"Er," Kenny replies, emerging from his bedroom, "Tangled? I haven't seen it yet."

In turn, Butters smiles and places the DVD in the disk drive. Once it's started, he sits on one end of Kenny's couch and motions that Kenny should sit on the other end, which he does. Kenny calls to Esther to come sit on his lap, but instead, she goes for Butters, resting her head on his leg.

"Damn dog," he mutters, but he soon becomes distracted by the movie.

Oddly, Kenny does start to feel better. It's a strange brand of feeling better, too, not how "feeling better" usually seems to be for him – which is having an okay day as opposed to a shitty day. He doesn't have good days. At least, he hasn't in a long time. He doesn't remember his last good day.

He doesn't remember the last time he was this comfortable with another person, either. Sure, he's kicked back and watched movies with Karen, and they've fallen asleep beside each other or with her head on his lap, usually. But with Karen, Kenny sometimes feels an underlying worry – one that Karen has. He knows that she worries that he'll fall back on drugs again. Sometimes he's tempted to. She worries that she'll lose her brother again. She's worried that he can't keep his shit straight.

Butters is…trusting. When he shouldn't be, if Kenny were to tell the truth. Kenny is just what people tend to consider the "bad sort." Butters is everything opposite, everything that society says makes the "good sort" of young man. He's served overseas. He got sparkling grades in high school. He takes care of his mom.

But then, who gives a shit what the people that think Kenny's the "bad sort" believe? Those same people would condemn Butters for liking men, when everything about Butters is this inherent _goodness._

Butters inches a little closer, laughing at the screen with his dopey, too-young-for-his-face smile. A bizarre sensation crawls through Kenny's body. He can't tell if it's from Butters being too close or from Butters not being close enough.

He finds this a little alarming. He hasn't felt this feeling – a creeping, climbing…desire of sorts – since he was maybe fourteen or fifteen, and a bag of raging hormones.

His brows sweep together. He doesn't know what the fuck to think about the twist in his gut that shoots off like firecrackers every time Butters gives him that lazy smile.

As the ending credits of the movie roll, Kenny notices that they've shifted even more. Butters is a lot closer than he was when the movie started, close enough that Esther is sitting on both of him (he gets the business end, of course. Butters gets the cute, lolling smile end). Almost as if he could feel Kenny looking at him, Butters turns and offers a steady smile. He asks, "Did it make you feel better at all?"

"Yeah," Kenny mumbles. It strikes Kenny as odd that he's telling the truth about that. But he is. He feels calm. His back hurts, and everything around him is this sucky stew of bullshit, but he's _okay_.

The last thing he expects to happen upon this realization is Butters swooping forward and pushing his lips up against Kenny's.

Kenny's first instinct is to push Butters away – so he does. He puts both hands on Butters chest and shoves him back.

"Oh, shit-sticks," Butters swears. His face flushes vivid red and he says, "Shit. I, ah, I'm real sorry. I-I'm just stupid, is what I am. It popped into my head, Ken, and I shouldn't have listened, but I wasn't actually thinkin' so hard, and…fuck. I'll, uh, I'll go home. Jesus, I'm sorry."

Kenny holds up a hand, interrupting Butters' rambling apology. He has to remind himself to breathe, mostly because he _doesn't kiss people. _It hasn't happened in so long. It's too intimate, too close. It's something that people that actually give a damn about each other do. Not Kenny. Kenny doesn't give a damn about anybody. This leads him to realize that he might give a shit about Butters.

Maybe he always gave a damn about Butters.

Kenny told his friends to stop making fun of the guy when they hit middle school.

He told it to them the day he saw bruises on Butters' arm. It had been an accident, of course. Butters was his lab partner in science class, and his sleeve just barely hiked up, revealing fingerprint shaped bruises close to his wrist. Butters had caught Kenny staring and tugged his sleeve down, blushing. He'd smiled at Kenny and that smile made him forget a little bit, but maybe not a lot. He understood, and still understands, what it's like to have a family that gives you things you want to hide. Bruises. Inclination toward drugs. Alcoholism. Fear. You want to bundle them up and stash them where nobody can see.

That's part of what makes South Park such a fucking hellhole on some days. Everybody knows everybody. During his childhood, his shitty-ass family got constantly put on display. His parents got arrested with the neighbors watching, he and his siblings got shipped off to foster homes for indefinite periods of time. But they always came back, and they always came back to the same thing. His family were _those McCormick people_, and that hasn't changed. Now he's just _that McCormick boy. _People don't talk about his brother and sister because they made it out of here.

People just adore making themselves feel better by comparing their lives to his. His job. His family. His world. At least they're not _that McCormick boy._

"K-Ken? You okay? I'm real sorry," Butters apologizes again.

"Why would you do that?" Kenny finds himself asking. Because, _really_, who the fuck would actually put their mouth on his?

Butters, naturally, takes his rhetorical question and answers as though Kenny meant it. He mashes his knuckles together and responds, "Ah, I dunno. 'Cause I like you, I guess. You're always taking care of things that need to be taken care of and just for the record, you're not bad looking either. I don't mean to be presumptuous, it's just that –"

Kenny interrupts, "Butters, I am fucking your father. I am a hooker."

"Well, shit, sure you are. But that's not who you are, that's what you do. And those things are different," Butters responds.

Kenny opens his mouth, and then closes it again. He repeats this process a few more times, realizing that he can't think of anything at all to say. Because, shit. Nobody has ever said something like that to him in his life. Everybody has always defined him by his unfortunate career. That's who Kenny McCormick is to this town. He's the resident dude-prostitute, available for purchase by any horny fucker that pays the right price. But Kenny himself – he's never considered that a part of his identity. It's not in his makeup. It's what he has to do to get by.

"Butters," is the first thing that finally slips out.

"That's me," Butters says, just a drop of sarcasm in it. Kenny tries not to smile at his tone of voice. He likes when he can tease out wry Butters.

"I want to try that again," Kenny says slowly, "But…stay still. And tell me if you want me to stop. I'm just trying to figure something out, okay?" The part that he's figuring out, of course, is whether or not he liked that kiss.

Butters doesn't react right away, but gradually, he nods his head.

Kenny prefaces, "Don't touch me or anything, okay? Just like, hold your hands in your lap or something."

"Yes sir," Butters jokes quietly, and Kenny watches him clench his hands into loose fists.

Kenny moves his dog, first, banishing her from the couch so that he can scoot forward. He leaves space between them, only a little. They're both sitting cross-legged, with about a half inch of space stopping their knees from touching. Kenny scratches the back of his head, trying to figure out how he should go about this. He finally decides on placing his hands on either side of Butters face and drawing him closer.

Butters lets out a small puff of air, a breath that he'd been holding in, and his face is hot under Kenny's hands from blushing. Somehow, Kenny takes these things as encouragement.

He ducks forward and presses his mouth to Butters'. It's only for an instant. He pulls his head back, but not too far, maybe a few centimeters from Butters' face.

"How was that?" Butters asks.

"I haven't decided yet," concludes Kenny.

This leads Kenny to his next move, which is to kiss Butters again. Their lips connect for a couple moments more before Kenny withdraws again. He still doesn't know how to feel. His head is swimming. So he kisses Butters again. He repeats the process several times, each kiss a little longer than the last, until one kiss extends long enough for Butters to make a small whining noise in his throat, and prod at Kenny's lips with his tongue. When Kenny opens his mouth and Butters starts stroking the inside of his mouth with his tongue, Kenny thinks he's come to a fairly solid conclusion.

He definitely likes kissing Butters Stotch.

Kenny tugs himself away, however, when he deems that the kiss has officially gone on too long.

At this action, Butters remarks, "You're g-goddamn confusing, mister."

Kenny laughs, but quiets after a second and confesses, "I haven't kissed anybody since high school."

Butters openly gapes at this admission before saying, "Well, Jesus. I guess I'll count myself lucky to be the first one you kissed in that long."

"I don't know about lucky," Kenny says, but he's flattered.

After that, the energy slowly begins to ebb, and Butters declares that he should really be going, as the sun is coming up and he doesn't want to worry his mother. Kenny helps him gather his things and tuck them back into his backpack.

At the door, Kenny stops Butters with the barest brush of his fingers and tests out another kiss on him, this one more chaste than the last. Butters flushes again and stammers out a goodbye, and Kenny goodbyes him in return with a little more finesse, before shutting the apartment door and locking in behind him.

He stands with his back against the front door, trying to process what he and Butters just did. This uncertainty is the kind of thing that people feel after they've had a one night stand with a stranger, not kissing somebody that they've known since preschool. So why is Kenny so charged with insecurity and doubt?

God, this is so fucked up. He's getting this stirring feeling of enjoyment around Butters. This is all so fucking inconvenient. He can't like Butters, because his motherfucking _job_ is to fuck Butters' dad, or get him off, or let him tear up his back with a belt. His job is to please the man. Kissing his son is not supposed to be in the cards, and yet, Kenny wants it in the cards.

In the weird, hellish game of poker that is his life, Kenny wants Butters in his hand.

That is so fucked.

He blows out all of the air in his lungs noisily and rubs a hand over his face, before saying to Esther, whose tail is wagging, "I am too wrecked to deal with this fucked up shit. Let's get some shut-eye, baby doll."

**o.o.o.o**

**Happy Thanksgiving, you guys! I finished this by mistake, so enjoy.**

**Thank you as always to these fine people, who I am certain are dapper as fuck: Lying Honesty, KirstenTheDestroyer, Miroir Twin, Reverse Psychology, Kuutamolla, KeiMaxwell, Mallory, conversefreak3, prettyoddrydonfan, and TheAwesome15.**

**Comments/Questions/Suggestions? Hit me up. **


	7. I'm Not Alone, You're Not Alone

**Chapter Track: Outsider – Chumbawamba **

Typically, when Kenny runs into his mother, it is a sure sign that he will be having a terrible day. And why should this day be any different? The only thing, he thinks that she might have been seeking him out intentionally. And that – _that_ is an even worse sign. He's on his way to Tweek's coffee, and has barely made it ten steps out of his apartment complex when he hears, "Kenneth McCormick."

He stiffens up, his first thought being, _I didn't even have a chance to fucking hide. _He doesn't turn around. He doesn't stop. Kenny simply continues trudging through the sludge-soaked sidewalks, trying to ignore the water seeping through the canvas of his Converse. He does, however, mutter, "Mornin', ma," in spite of the fact that it is not morning, but in fact two in the afternoon. He's only just woken up, too, so this surprise is twice as unpleasant.

"Don't you walk away from me," Carol complains, jogging through the half-melted layer of snow to pull up to his side. The frown lines are deep around her mouth.

"I ain't," Kenny snaps. He almost groans in frustration at his use of 'ain't.' Being annoyed around his family tends to bring out the white trash in him. This, inevitably, makes him even more irritated with the situation. He pats himself down and finds his cigarettes, sticking one in his mouth before offering one to his mother.

She accepts, and as Kenny lights hers first and then his, they walk silently.

"I want you over for Thanksgiving this year," she says, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke.

Kenny can't help it. He laughs. He laughs so hard that he chokes on his cigarette smoke. He can't stop himself – because, dear God, _why_? Puffs of smoke are coming out of his mouth as he hacks on his cackle, and he hits his chest with his fist to get himself back in working order. When he's finally composed himself to a mere chuckle, he asks, "Why in the hell would I do that?"

Carol glares at him and smacks his arm, hard. She says, "Why are you talkin' to your mama like that?"

"I'm not coming over for Thanksgiving, Ma," Kenny says, "Only reason I would is if Karen was gonna be there, and I know she's not 'cause she ditched me to be with her _fiancée._" Not that he's bitter or anything. Except that he is. He knows that Thanksgiving dinner with him is slim pickings, but he's always looked forward to spending it with his little sister. To be fair, she _did_ invite him to come along with her to the Donovan's, but he declined. He'd rather uphold his and Karen's Turkey Day traditions by himself than submit himself to a dinner at the Donovan's (The traditions are few, but strangely important to him: Turkey sandwiches on fancy French bread, pumpkin lattes at Tweak Bros, and a marathon of all three Lord of the Rings movies).

"Well, why the fuck not?" Carol demands, folding her arms. Age hasn't been particularly kind to his mother. She's still skinny as shit, probably from being too tired to bother to eat when she should at the end of the night, but instead of this being the benefit that many would think it to be, she looks gaunt. Her face has deep worry lines, deeper than they should be for a woman her age. She had them all pretty young, Kenny remembers thinking even as a child that it was strange that she was younger than all the other moms. She had Kev at nineteen, which terrifies him a little – if he'd followed in his parents footsteps, he'd have a six-year-old, a three-year-old and a brand new baby by now.

Mercifully, Kenny is childless.

"Why the fuck do you think?" Kenny responds testily, "I don't like being back in your house, to start with. And I hate dad. And Kevin's prolly coming by, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is, like the good damned son he is," Carol replies haughtily, "and he's bringing his girlfriend, too. You know she's having a baby? You're gonna be an uncle."

That is the worst news that Kenny could possibly hear about his brother, to be honest. Kevin, after Stuart, is the last man on the planet that should have children. He doesn't know what to say about this news, because he's actually scared for his brother's girlfriend. He's met her once before. She's a nice lady, if a little timid. And who wouldn't be timid when you had a guy like Kevin McCormick? Kevin is big and mean and a terrifying son of a bitch. He and Kenny have had their moments, sure…but Kevin's not okay. He's even less okay than Kenny is, and Kenny is a hooker.

"He is gonna get that baby taken away," Kenny says, "You know how he is. I'm not going."

Kenny crosses the street, then, not only because Tweak Bros is on the opposite side of the road, but because he needs to get away from his mother. In an alternate universe, he thinks he might have been able to tolerate her company for more than a few minutes, but unfortunately, they live in this universe – the one where she married a drunk and became fucked up beyond recognition herself, where she had kids too young and was too tired to take care of them when she came home from work. She's never meant harm, Kenny knows that, but it's hard to erase the days when he'd come home from school to see Karen sporting a black eye, courtesy of their older brother, and have their parents refuse to do shit about it ("She should hit 'im back," Carol would say, but Stuart was worse, "It's good for her. She needs to learn how to take a punch.").

"You ungrateful little shit," Carol protests, but Kenny doesn't even turn around as she comes stalking after him, "You get back here!"

Despite being angry at her, when Kenny sees a truck barreling around the corner, he still darts to where she stands in the middle of the street and shoves her aside, just in the nick of time. In the same instant that her ass collides with the safety of the distant pavement, the truck slams into Kenny.

It hurts, like dying always does. And because this day, having started with his mother, was destined to be several levels of terrible, this death is slow. Kenny doesn't get to have his skull mercifully explode on contact with the road, no. The truck tried to slow down, but it just wasn't quick enough. It breaks his legs. He's used to that, too. He's used to a lot of different things being broken.

The worst of it though, is that as he's bleeding out onto the road, he hears his mom scream. God, how many times has he heard that scream? She runs to his side, but he can't quite see it, at least, not in his body. He feels himself slipping out of it, watching the whole scene from above, as the truck driver shouts desperately into his cellphone and as his mom holds his hand and tells him, _hang on, hang on, we'll get you to a hospital, hang on. _As much as he mostly can't stand his mother, Kenny still loves her desperately sometimes. It's when she's like this when it's the worst, because he remembers that she loves him, too.

Kenny ends up in Hell, not that it's any surprise that he's there. He's feeling torn up and dejected and he still wants his coffee – but alas, there is no coffee in Hell. Instead of sticking around for the hourly orientation, he starts the hike up to Satan's to see if he can find Damien hanging around.

He's not even halfway up the hill when he starts to feel the pull back to Earth, and Kenny can't decide if he's happy or if he's upset that this death has been a short one.

He wakes up in his apartment, with Esther whining and prodding his face with her damp nose. His dog instinctively knows when he dies. He thinks that she might howl like heck when he's gone, but for obvious reasons, he can't know for certain. Maybe he's making it up, but every time that he comes back, he thinks he sees relief in her eye.

Kenny feels a headache coming on, but because he's too lazy to get out of his bed for the second time today, he ignores it and claps for his dog to join him on the bed. She jumps up and lands mostly on his chest, licking his face before she settles next to him. He tries to sort his thoughts while he scratches her behind the ears. He's always a little hazy when he gets slammed into a new body. It's almost as though it takes his brain a moments to reboot or buffer.

He was walking to Tweak Bros.

Ahh, it's all coming back now. He was on his way to get a solid cup of coffee before he headed to the grocery store. He has yet to get supplies for Thanksgiving, which is in two days. He doesn't need much, just some turkey slices from the deli and some bread. He figures, being on his own this year, he'll go all out and get a loaf from the bakery instead of the grocery store, a nice treat for himself. That's what he'll be thankful for this year. Good bread. Or something like that.

After a few more minutes of lounging in his bed with his dog, he feels ready to face the day for a second time. When he checks his phone, he sees that it's four in the evening. He sighs and wanders to his closet, sifting through the mish mash of clothing. Another reason why he always ends up at the church donation bin is because he keeps _fucking dying_ and getting his blood all over his clothes. Not that he ever sees the clothes he was wearing at the time of his deaths. They're long disposed of by the time he comes around again. This is another key in his reluctance to purchase nice garments. He'd probably just ruin them with brain bits and intestine goo.

Kenny decides that he doesn't care what he looks like. The whole town knows him, and what he does, anyway. There's no use in pretending that they don't. So what does he care if they think he looks like a slob? He extracts something from his dirty laundry pile and tugs it over his head, jeans soon following. He tugs his hood up over his face before he goes outside.

He's done this thing – the thing with his hood – since he was a kid, he realizes. It started out as a method of keeping warm in his shitty threadbare coat, but now it's become more of a defense thing. A sort of, _maybe they won't know it's me if they can't see my face,_ even though having his hood up 24/7 serves only as an identifier instead.

Kenny smokes a cigarette on his way to Tweak Bros, stubbing it out when it's half-finished and putting it back in the box. Tweek looks uncharacteristically cheerful when he draws up to the counter, back hunched against the curious stares of a couple patrons. He wonders if having his hood up makes him look like a criminal or something, and can't decide if that's better or worse than looking like himself. In the end, Kenny tugs it down and greets Tweek with a gruff, "Hey."

"H-Hi Kenny!" Tweek shouts this a little louder than necessarily, making Kenny wince, "The usual?" Tweek doesn't tend to question Kenny's order. Usually, he just _knows. _

"Yeah. Something good happen today? You're a ray of fucking sunshine, dude," Kenny says, eyeing Tweek from his sort-of-combed hair to his green apron and faux-wood nametag. Nothing seems out of place at first glance, except for that the corners of Tweek's mouth are pulled up a little in a shy smile.

"It's Thanksgiving," Tweek says, even though it is not quite the holiday itself, "Everybody comes back to town for Thanksgiving."

Oh. So that's it. He's hoping that Craig will come back from his soul searching for a nice Tucker family dinner in good ol' South Park. Kenny does not see this as much of a possibility, so he gives Tweek a stiff, halfhearted smile instead of a response.

But, when he moves away, Tweek starts up again, "I saw Kyle today." Kenny freezes at that. He's thought a very rare few times that he might have seen Kyle or Stan through a window or something. It's inevitable that he should catch glimpses of them, especially around the holidays, since their families still live here. It's natural that they would visit.

Maybe that's why he becomes such a damned recluse during the holiday season. Aside from hiding from his own family, that is.

"That's nice, Tweek. Can I have my coffee?" Kenny asks. He's on the edge of losing his politeness, even though he hates being a dick to Tweek. Tweek has been nothing but nice over the years, but fucking damn, that kid is a goddamned king of missing social cues.

As if to illustrate Kenny's thought, Tweek goes on as he prepares Kenny's Americano, "Kyle looks really weird. His hair is all _long_. He looks old. We're not old, are we?"

"I don't think so," Kenny mumbles back.

"Okay, good. It freaks me out when people we knew in high school bring their kids in here, man. It's like, what the fuck? There's time for that later. Or never. I never want kids," Tweek rambles. Kenny decides not to tell Tweek that he thinks that this is a good decision that he has made. The last thing Tweek needs in his life is a gaggle of mini-Tweeks, running around all paranoid and missing attention spans.

"I hear you, dude," Kenny agrees. At one time, he might have thought about reproducing. Everybody sort of does, right? Like the thought crosses their mind at least once in their life, right? He thought about it a couple times before his life went to hell, when he was real fucking young. Mostly the thought went, _if I have a family, would they suck this much_? They probably would with a shitty father like him, so he'll be content to never deal with that shit.

Kenny takes his Americano from Tweek, giving a silent prayer to the universe for it to clear his muddled head before he has to head off to work tonight. At least in his new body, he isn't all torn up. Or maybe that's worse, because now the skin he has on his back is all new and baby-fresh and delicate.

On the way to the grocery store, he smokes the other half of his cigarette. He finishes it just in time to crush it underneath his shoe in front of the joint. At the front, there's a couple of kids with coats over their boy scout uniforms, presumably doing something for some charity.

"Excuse me, sir," one says, sliding out from behind the booth.

His father is quick to stop him with a hand on the shoulder. Kenny knows the guy somehow, one of the kids that he went to school with. He tries to put his finger on it, but can't. Kenny just knows that the boy's father _must _know who Kenny is, because he says to his son, "No, Jerry. Not than man."

Sometimes, Kenny thinks that the grocery store is his least favorite place in South Park. There are lots of places he can go to that not every person in the town will occupy, but inevitably, he runs into everybody from his past in this place. Best to just get in and get out.

But with his luck, he can't have that. So it comes as no damned surprise that as he's standing awkwardly at the deli counter, hood down, fiddling with the rim of the lid on his coffee cup, that he hears, "Kenny McCormick? Is that you?"

He hates when they tack on 'McCormick.' It means that the person he's about to turn around and see standing there is somebody that knew him pre-Polly. Somebody that maybe even knew him pre-drug addiction.

Oh, fuck his life. This is just what he needed.

When the wet bottoms of Kenny's sneakers squeal against the linoleum floor as he veers, he sees one of the last people that he was hoping to see. Couldn't have been Craig, no, of course not.

It's Stan.

"Sweet Jesus, tell me that is not a child on your shoulder," Kenny squeezes out. He knows it is. There's no other explanation for the sacked-out toddler wearing footie pajamas.

"Ah, yeah," Stan says, casting the thing a fond look, "His name is Christopher. How have you been, dude? You look, uh, better. I mean, good. I didn't know you were still…up here." It sounds like Stan was going to say 'alive' but saved himself in the nick of time with 'up here,' instead.

Kenny takes a long drink of his coffee and prays for the deli attendant to come back with his turkey so he can make his escape from this conversation. It would be more fun to talk to Stan fucking Marsh if he had actually done something with himself through the years, but no. No, unfortunately not. No, he is a stripper. He is _Cartman's_ stripper. He rubs his hand over his hair, massaging his temples, and says, "Um. I'm okay, I guess. You look…married." At least, he assumes. Stan doesn't seem the type to have a child out of wedlock, and if he _had_ gotten himself into that situation, Kenny thinks Stan would have insisted upon a wedding.

A look of confusion rises up on his face. He says, "Yeah, I am. I thought – didn't you get an invitation? I mean, it was a few years ago, but I sent one to your house – "

"If you think that something sent to my childhood house would have ever made it to me, you're even stupider than you look," Kenny states. He could have tried to be polite. _Could_ have. But frankly, he isn't in the mood. He doesn't need Stan Marsh barging back into his life. He needs that as much as he needs a knife in the eye – which is to say, really, fuck, this is the last thing that he needs.

Kenny almost cries tears of joy when the woman running the deli counter returns with his sliced turkey all bagged up for him. He starts to make his run toward the checkout counters (of which there are a mere three), but is stopped by a more feminine voice, "Is that Kenny?"

Oh, good God. He can't get a fucking break around here, can he?

Kenny feels that he can't ignore Wendy, really. She helped him a lot, when nobody else would. When he was stuck in freezing in the snow in an alleyway, too high to know that he was dying, she'd come and tuck a blanket around him, or sometimes bring him food. Despite being headstrong and loud, she's one of the fucking nicest people that he's known. And he never thanked her for it. She left South Park before he was sober enough to realize all that she had done.

Kenny turns his head back, throwing her a smile so thin that it threatens to shatter as he takes her in. She's standing next to Stan with her hand on his arm, smiling warmly, her other hand resting on her enormous baby belly.

Stan, the bastard, has a look of smugness on his face, one that says, _you can ignore me, but you can't ignore her, can you_?

"Hi, Wendy," he says weakly.

"How are you?" she bursts, "How come I've never seen you during the holidays before? Stan and I – well, we've just been so worried, worried that you might be, uh."

"Dead?" suggests Kenny.

"Yes, that," Wendy says. She hesitates, but ends up surging forward, like she's going to hug him, or touch his face, or whatever. He flinches, not wanting to inadvertently injure her or her incubating fetus. She stops before she reaches him, maybe understanding.

"I tend to avoid going out for the holidays," Kenny says tightly, "But Karen is doing something else this year, so I'm on my own."

"Oh? You could come with us to Stan's parents'," Wendy suggests.

"You don't think that's a good idea," Kenny tells her, "I sure as hell don't. Look. I've gotta go. I – um." He could not have made a more awkward exit than that, but he follows it through, stalking away with hunched shoulders. He's still got to go to the bakery, after all. He can't just fucking linger. He has…shit to do. Like laundry, maybe. Or sleeping. Or moping. Anything sounds better than being here.

He should have known that Stan wouldn't just let him go, though. As Kenny is rushing back out into the cold, searching desperately for another cigarette, Stan jogs out of the grocery store, looking relieved that Kenny is cupping his hands against the biting wind so he can light up. Stan is now, however, missing the toddler on his shoulder.

"Aw, come the fuck on," Kenny mutters to himself.

"Look, dude," Stan says, looking all earnest and well-meaning like the asshole he is, "I feel – um, I just like, feel really bad about how we left things. Hey, did you know Cartman's mom died? He like, owns her strip joint now. We should go together or something. Kyle and I were joking about it, but maybe we really should, just for fun or –"

"_No_," Kenny says. He doesn't snap, nor is his voice even that loud. In fact, he's quiet. He hears the firmness in his own tone, though. The dead rasp of one word that tells another person you fucking mean what you say. He exhales a billowing cloud of cigarette smoke and shakes his head, unable to come up with words at first other than, "No, no, no. Fuck no."

Stan has the audacity to look hurt. Because Kenny told him that he didn't want to go to a fucking strip club with him. Come to think of it, that would be strange behavior for the Kenny that Stan knew all those years ago. But he's not that Kenny anymore. He's this one.

Stan asks, "Why not?"

Kenny has an inner debate over whether or not he should reveal his occupation to Stan. It's kind of nice that he seems not to know what Kenny does for a living. It's a nice break from the accusing stares and the people shuffling their children away from him, almost like he's a feral animal that attacks kids.

But he doesn't want Stan around.

So Kenny says, voice flat, "I work there."

Stan cocks his head like he doesn't understand and asks, "Like, as a bartender? Or…what?"

"Yes, Stan, Cartman made me his _bartender_," Kenny replies sarcastically, "No, you fucking dumbass. I'm a whore. So just, you know, fuck off, or something."

Kenny doesn't wait to hear Stan's response. He takes off down the street, heading toward the bakery. He'd ignore the chore and go home, but he doesn't want to have to show his head outside again when it's not necessary.

When Kenny gets back home with his fancy Thanksgiving bread and deli turkey, he throws the turkey in the fridge. He lets himself go through a few chores before he throws a fit about running into Stan. He'll make his bed…or something. Or fold his clothes. Or…

No, he'll just throw a fit.

Kenny shouts at his ceiling, "FUCK!" and kicks the side of the couch with as much strength as he can muster, which ends up doing him more harm than good. He swears again at the pain in his foot and keeps swearing afterward, not knowing how else to react to running into his old friend. He hates the things he's feeling. He misses Stan and Kyle so much sometimes, but simultaneously, he does not want them to see him like this. And now Stan has.

Kenny doesn't like to cry, so he strives to avoid it for the most part. Instead of sobbing like this whole fucked up day makes him want to, he just sits on his couch with his head in his hands, muttering swears and curling his body into itself.

He doesn't want to go to work.

But he has to.

He has to make money. He has to escape. He can't _be here forever_, even though that's what it feels like he will be.

Kenny suddenly feels the overwhelming urge to commit his first suicide in months. If he did, he'd avoid going to work, and everybody would forget that he'd been gone anyway. He can do it. He owns a set of knives. He owns a gun, too, though he owns his piece mostly out of paranoia that his old drug dealer and his friends will show up at his door. It's a horrible type of a sticky fear, Kenny being scared of his drug dealer. The worry has latched itself to the back of his mind, riding on it at all times. He knows that surely, it can't be possible that the man would return to Kenny's life. Cartman took care of that all. But as soon as he was sober enough to be afraid, that fear overtook him with a vengeance.

Jesus fucking Christ. He's falling into that vortex of negativity – the one that sucks you in when a couple shit things happen, and you've had a cock of a day, and suddenly, it seems like your entire world is on fire and you're trapped in it with no way out.

Kenny spends the rest of his hours between this thought and work sucking through half of the pack of his cigarettes, worrying himself sick, and debating the pros and cons of shooting himself in the head.

In the end, he decides that he needs the money he can rake in tonight from tips. So he suits up in his stupid leather pants and work shoes and tosses a shirt and his coat over his torso, zipping to his neck. It's damned cold out tonight. It'll be even worse now that the sun's gone down.

Thank fucking God it's a Tuesday. Kenny definitely would have offed himself if tonight happened to be a Friday or Saturday. He doesn't think that he could handle the groping and leering in his current mindset, which is nothing short of dismal. He already wants the night to be over, and he isn't even inside the club yet.

Kenny lingers in the dressing room after the girls have already gone out, staring at himself in the mirror with his smoky makeup and gelled hair, trying to center himself into some semblance of being okay. He'll just go out there and lose his head like he always does. He'll make his thoughts into white noise, he'll close his eyes, and he'll dance.

Why is this getting so fucking hard?

He's been at this for years. He didn't used to ponder so much on what he's doing. It didn't used to bother him. A guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do to get by. That's always how it's been. But lately, he's been…_itchy. _The need to get away from here is all over him, in his heart and his brain.

"Kenny?" Portia pokes her head in the dressing room, "We've got about a minute before we need you out there. Are you feeling sick, sweetie?"

Kenny tears his gaze off of his glitzy reflection and says, "I'm fine. Just a little tired."

Portia gives him a knowing look. It's the kind of tired nobody but another body in the business would understand, and tonight, he's secretly glad he's not alone. She says, "We've gotta get out there, then, sweetheart."

He nods and stands, and with that, the night begins.

With relief like a typhoon, Kenny is able to erase thoughts from his mind when he gets into his place for the night. He has sadly been assigned to the cages to dance tonight. They're not so bad, he supposes, if you ignore the indignity of cage dancing.

He closes his eyes and loses himself to the music, swinging and swaying his body to the beat. He can't help but allow a smile to himself every time that Lady Gaga's 'Lovegame' comes over the speaker system, though. He can't help but think how he and the girls think, _No, I don't actually want to take a ride on your disco stick, _with each time that it is played.

Kenny opens his eyes after awhile, feeling calmer. After this he'll tend to Stotch, and then he'll go home.

Maybe he'll even kiss Butters again. He enjoyed that, probably too much. No, _definitely_ too much. Enjoying kissing at all is too much. He can't like kissing somebody, not with this job. Not with this life. Not with this world or this universe or this _anything. _

Kenny's momentary high mood, brought on by the irresponsible thoughts of kissing Butters Stotch, comes crashing down into a million tiny pieces when he looks out at the crowd.

Stan _fucking _Marsh.

Stan is sitting at the same booth Butters sat at a month ago when all this shit seemed to have started. He's nursing a glass of water in lieu of liquor - Kenny wonders if Stan has stopped drinking within the ten years they haven't spoken - and fidgeting, looking awkward. And then he sneaks a glance at Kenny – who hasn't stopped dancing, because he _can't_ stop – and Kenny realizes that he must have been looking over here the entire time.

Cartman isn't too far from where Kenny dances, and so he hisses, hoping that the crowd can't tell that he's speaking, "Cartman!"

Cartman glances sharply at him and snaps, "What, poor boy? Pick up the pace, you slacker."

"Fuck you," Kenny spits back, in no mood to deal with Cartman's prissy bullshit, "I need a breather. Five minutes."

"Suck my balls, Kinny, you have work to do," Cartman responds.

"I need five fucking minutes, Cartman," Kenny snaps back. This argument would be a lot more dignified if he wasn't pelvic thrusting into the air.

Cartman doesn't respond, instead he merely cocks a brow and eyes Kenny like he's a bug deserving to be squished.

Kenny sighs, "Boss."

"Yes?" Cartman's brow, if possible, seems to lift higher.

"I need a break," Kenny says again, slowly, "please."

"Five fucking minutes, and you'd better not fucking go over that," Cartman waves a hand, dismissing him.

Kenny makes a beeline for where Stan is sitting. He feels anger making him shake with each step that he takes closer to his old friend. He balls his hands into fists, torn between screaming and throwing a chair at Stan's stupid fucking face.

In the end, he does neither. When Kenny reaches Stan, he draw his words out so he doesn't slur them in his fury, "Since I can't manhandle your dumb fucking ass, follow me."

Stan doesn't look like he knows what else to do but obey, but once they're in the back hallway, he looks like he belatedly forgot that he could run. Unfortunate, because now Kenny feels no qualms about grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and dragging him down to the dressing room. He doesn't want to take Stan up into one of the upstairs rooms. He doesn't want to see Stan in that context. He doesn't want to associate him with this place. He wants to keep Stan neatly folded in memories of good times. But no. No, Kenny can't have one simple thing, like good memories. It had to be fucked up.

"Kenny, dude, let me explain," Stan is saying, and Kenny ignores those words like he hasn't even heard them, like Stan evidently ignored Kenny's warning not to come to Polly. At least Stan didn't bring Kyle with him. Then the humiliation of having your childhood best friend watch you cage dance would be doubled, and he'd feel even more like dirt. Kenny doesn't think it's possible for him to feel any worse than he does right now. He's wishing that he'd shot himself in the head instead of deciding to be responsible.

Kenny shoves Stan into the dressing room, locking the door behind them.

At first he can't think of what to say. He's too angry. Then he roars, "Why didn't you _fucking listen _to me?"

"I thought you were joking," Stan says helplessly.

"Did I _sound_ like I was joking? Fuck you. Seriously, fuck you. Fuck you and your perfect life, your perfect wife, your perfect one and half children. God, I can't believe you. I know it all went to shit, but we were friends at one point. And friends fucking listen to each other."

"Kenny, I –"

"Do you think this is what I want to be doing? Do you think that I'm having great fucking time being _owned_ by Eric Cartman? Do you think that's a barrel of laughs? Or are you really just that stupid?" Kenny demands. He's so man that he's spitting as he speaks, barely managing to form sentences, and only succeeding in sputtering out broken phrases of rage.

"Kenny, please, hear me out," Stan says, holding up his hands, "I was – I was worried. You _are_ my friend. Or you were. Before, you know."

"Is this going anywhere, asshole? I've got three minutes left before I have to get back to work," Kenny says, glancing at the kitschy cat clock above the lockers.

"Sorry, sorry," says Stan. He's sweating, looking guilty. As well he should. Fucking dick. He goes on, "I can get you out of here. Come with me and Wendy, back to California."

"Yes, I'm sure that housing a stripper is very good for the children," Kenny says sarcastically, "I appreciate the sentiment, I do, but I can't leave. I owe Cartman a lot of money and last time I tried to get out of here, he brought me back in handcuffs. Just please, _please_ leave. If you have ever been my friend, you will leave, and you will leave now."

"Kenny –"

"_Now_."

"Okay, but I –"

"_Now, _Stanley," Kenny snaps, "I have to go back. If you've got any ounce of humanity left in you, you won't stick around."

Kenny storms out. He doesn't remember the last time he's done any _storming_ out of anywhere, but right now, he's fucking livid. He channels it into one hell of a night. He's a good dancer. You have to be for this job, and he's got years of practice under his belt, to boot.

When later that Kenny is taken up to the nicest room in this hellhole, and he can't get Stotch hard for about the fiftieth time, he turns over to be beaten into oblivion. But Stephen doesn't go for his back. He tells Kenny to get rid of his pants, instead, and whispers, _your boss says I can't leave marks on your back. _He doesn't say 'anymore' at the end of that, because, with Kenny's death and the disappearance of the previous scars, they would have forgotten that the scars once existed. But Cartman must have had a conversation with Stotch, plying him with expensive alcohol.

So he doesn't hit his back. He beats Kenny's legs, his ass. Hard, harder than before, it seems, perhaps because limitations have been placed on him, and that makes him angrier.

When Stotch leaves, he can't walk right. He debates the importance of putting his pants back on. They're tight and not exactly easy to get onto his body, but he can't walk out of here without them on.

It takes a lot of pain and swearing, but he does pull them up. He limps down the stairs and into the dressing room. It fucking _hurts_ to walk. He may as well just off himself so that he'll heal faster. Thank God for Butters and his motorcycle. Kenny doesn't know if he could make it home, walking by himself like he did before Butters showed up in town.

He struggles out the door. The fact that it's freezing fucking cold outside worsens the walking situation, making his legs stiffen with the cold.

Butters pulls up and Kenny breathes a sigh of relief, thinking of the barrel of his gun and how fucking nice it sounds right now.

But then, after Butters, a Subaru pulls up.

At the wheel is Stan.

"Fuck off," Kenny calls, but now he's reluctant to get on the back of Butters' motorcycle, because he doesn't want Stan to know about the situation between them. Not because it's embarrassing to Kenny, no. It's the opposite, really. These rides home and the brief time spent together and the recent kisses – those are all sacred to Kenny. They're in a separate world from this one, the one where the backs of his legs are fucked up so badly that he's practically dragging himself to Butters' side. Butters is a good thing. He doesn't live in the same universe as the bad.

Stan rolls down the window and leans out of it, calling, "Dude, is that Butters?"

At the mention of his name, Butters turns around. He gets all bright when he sees that it's Stan and says cheerily, "Well, hey, Stan!" For some reason, this pisses Kenny off. Like Butters' cheerfulness should be reserved for him, and not used up on Stan I-don't-listen-to-people Marsh.

"Jesus," Kenny mutters, "Screw you guys."

He limps away from Butters and back to the sidewalk, where he shakily lights a cigarette. He doesn't want to walk all the way back to his apartment. Just thinking of those five flights of stairs makes him want to cry. But he doesn't want to deal with this – people popping up from his past and knowing what he does now, how he lives. It was okay for Butters to know because Butters never utters a judgmental word against anybody, unless they've done something especially cruel and heartless.

"Aw, c'mon, Ken," Butters says, "You're walkin' all funny. Let me give you a ride back."

"Dude, it's freezing," protests Stan, "I have a car. Let _me_ give you a ride."

"No," Kenny says, but he can't make his voice as loud as he'd like because he's been yelling so much today that he's started to lose it, "Fuck off. I'm not fucking having you two fucking making merry together over my humiliation. Just let me have my pride. Fuck."

They both protest, both insist that he should climb onto or into one of the vehicles being offered. And it's tempting, God, but it is tempting. His legs hurt so much that they're quaking with every angry step that he takes. But this is about his fucking dignity. He's not going to let himself look as pathetic as he feels.

It's a slow journey, over which several cigarettes are smoked and neither Stan nor Butters turn around and go back home, in spite of Kenny's orders that they should.

They follow him all the way to his apartment complex.

He doesn't speak when they park. He just walks in and starts up the stairs. He's in pain, so much pain. He thinks he'd feel better if he had his legs hacked off – and Kenny has actually had that happen to him, on more than one occasion.

He's halfway up the second flight of stairs when his legs buckle and he crashes down. He's beaten to hell. He won't make it all the way up. That's okay – he's had to spend the night on the stairs before. At least he didn't give Stan and Butters the satisfaction of seeing him this way. He walked all the fucking way back home. He's had to do it before and he knows that he'll have to do it again.

Kenny presses his face against the filthy carpet of the stairs. When he wakes up, he'll walk the rest of the way. And then he can kill himself and he'll have a new set of legs. Then maybe Stan will forget all about everything he's seen tonight, which is for the best. God knows he's going to spill the beans to Kyle about what he's witnessed.

"Oh, fuck," he hears, and that's the worst thing that Kenny could hear – not because of the words themselves, but because it's Stan's voice that uttered them.

"Jesus," says another, and that one is Butters.

Butters knows about the stairs. Butters was probably worried for him. Butters probably went crusading in here to make sure that Kenny would be okay and then found him like this.

"I'm fine," Kenny says, which is the opposite of true, but he just wants them to leave.

Instead, they come rushing to his sides and with combined effort, heave him up. Butters explains to Stan that Kenny lives on the top floor, and so they take him there, one slow step at a time. Kenny is deadweight in their arms. He tries to move his legs and help them a little but it works against them, making them stumble. So he gives up. The humiliation is complete. He can't fucking wait to put his piece to his head and pull the trigger. He feels like a kid waiting for a damned trip to Disneyland.

Stan finds his apartment key in the pocket of Kenny's coat and opens the door for them. Butters is supporting Kenny on his own, now, not that it's surprising that his strength could manage a skinny shit like him.

When Butters deposits Kenny on his bed, he says, "You can go now."

"Ken," Butters says warningly, and he glances back at Stan before leaning down and asking quietly, "I'm gonna take a look at your legs, you hear? I'm pretty good at cleaning people up. But if you want me to tell Stan to go, I'll tell him to get his ass out."

"Hey," argues Stan.

"…He can stay," Kenny decides. It would be pointless to force him out now, now that he's seen everything.

"You have a first aid kit or anything?" asks Butters.

If there's anything that Kenny needs to constantly have on hand, it's one of those. He nods into his pillow and answers, "Cabinet above the stove." Butters gives Stan a look that says 'go fetch,' which is actually rather effective – Stan obeys.

Butters is gentle about pulling off Kenny's work pants, but each ginger tug down still hurts. The material has stuck to his skin in the places that he bled, blood drying and fusing the two together. Butters says, "You can curse at me, if that helps."

Kenny doesn't have to be told twice. He swears up a storm, coming up with curses so creative that he didn't know he had it in him, until his limbs are mercifully free from the leather deathtrap that is his pants.

"Holy _shit_, dude," Stan says behind them, cueing his entrance.

"I have to touch you to clean you up, is that okay?" Butters asks.

"S'fine," Kenny mutters, though he feels a little dread at the prospect.

Kenny glances over his shoulder, and sees Stan staring at the mess of welts running all the way from ass to ankle on his legs. He has to admit, it's one of the more impressive messes that he hasn't died from. He shudders a little at the accidental skin on skin brushes, and the sting of whatever Butters is applying to it.

"Ken, I'm really sorry," Butters says. He sounds like he's close to crying.

Kenny turns sharply and sees that it's true – Butters' eyes are watery, though not overflowing.

"Jesus, what are you sorry for?" Kenny asks.

"'Cause it's my st-stupid-ass dad that's doing this to you," Butters stammers, "It feels like it's my fuckin' fault and you're too good for this, you're too nice –"

"Stop," Kenny says, "It's…this isn't…this doesn't have anything to do with you, alright? You're awesome, okay. Just…" What does Kenny want to tack onto the end of that? That Butters is this weird, off-puttingly good goddamned thing. Even now, he's easing Kenny back into a state of being okay. He's bringing him back up, pulling him out of this pit of hell that he's drowning in.

As if sensing that there's a moment happening, Stan's phone goes off. Stan mutters an apology behind them and walks from the room.

When he returns he says, "Hey, Kenny?"

"Hey, Stan?" Kenny mocks, into his pillow while Butters continues to patch him.

"I've gotta bounce. Wendy noticed I'm gone and she sounds pretty pissed. I'm leaving you my cell number, dude. I don't know what to say, man. I'm just really torn up, okay? You – uh, deserve better than this," Stan says. Kenny doesn't reply, and Stan must take that as his signal to leave, because he sighs heavily. Kenny hears his footsteps out a few seconds later.

A few minutes later, Butters says, "I'm done. Do you need me for anything else? I could make you some coffee, or maybe set up a movie for you – you can, uh, borrow my laptop."

"Stay with me."

Kenny didn't expect that to come out of his mouth. But that's what he said. Peculiarly enough, he doesn't feel like taking it back. He looks up at Butters uncertainly, wondering if he's crossed a line between them.

"Sure thing," Butters says, "Do you want me on the couch?"

"No. Here."

Without questioning that, Butters settles down beside Kenny, as far away from touching as he can get. It's a difficult task in a twin-sized bed. The effort it takes is touching, really, especially when Butters pulls the covers up over Kenny, and sits on top of them himself, so they won't be skin on skin.

Just as Kenny's drifting in and out of sleep, Butters yawns and whispers in an elementary school-type whisper, "I think you're awesome too. You're the bee's fuckin' knees, if you ask me."

The thought of Kenny taking a gun to his head suddenly doesn't seem so pretty an idea. He entertains the idea of shooting himself in the morning, but when he glances at the man beside him through heavy-lidded eyes, Kenny decides that he doesn't really feel like it.

**o.o.o.o**

**Long chapter is loooong. **

**So much thanks to my wonderful reviewers. You guys, seriously. I don't know if I reiterate enough how wonderful it is to hear how I'm doing. You all are spectacular people: theyellowsky, Lying Honesty, sadpeople56, KeiMaxwell, FullmetalDemon, Reverse Psychology, TheAwesome15, KirstenTheDestroyer, Crazy88inator, Porn Mercenary, conversefreak3, prettyoddrydonfan, Kuutamolla, Mallory, and MariePierre.**


	8. Love Can't Do Me No Harm

**Chapter Track: I Got You (I Feel Good) – James Brown**

Kenny's jolted awake when something rams against his leg. He cries out sleepily, ready to bite off Butters' head, until he notices that Butters isn't awake.

The sun is leaking in through the cracks between the dark curtains. They've only been asleep for a handful of hours.

His eyes are closed, but he's whimpering and thrashing back and forth. Kenny waits for a moment to see if he'll stop, but he doesn't.

"Butters."

Butters shakes all over.

"_Butters_."

Kenny puts a hand on Butters' shoulder and jars him. Butters jerks out of sleep with a, "Oh Jesus!" and flings Kenny off of him – almost off of the bed entirely, "Oh, uh. Kenny. I'm real sorry. I get nightmares." He rubs the back of his neck, scooting back to the place where he fell asleep a couple of hours ago.

"Do you…want to tell me about them?" Kenny asks, not certain that he actually wants to know.

Butters doesn't look Kenny. He keeps his back to him instead, and stares at the wall while he says, "I don't like talking about Iraq." His voice is so soft that Kenny's grateful for the fact that the heat isn't working. The noise of the air coming in would have made it too loud for him to pick up Butters' words.

"Maybe you should," Kenny suggests.

Butters jolts into a sitting position and snaps, "Why don't _you_ talk about bein' a prostitute?" A moment later, before Kenny can even register the ache of being offended, Butters swears, "Ah, shit. I didn't mean that. I just don't wanna talk about it, okay? Maybe I should be headed home anyway."

"_No_," Kenny says. His voice is loud. It echoes in his empty bedroom.

The hard lines of Butters' anxious face soften at this single syllable. He mumbles, "Alright." He lifts his hand, reaching out to touch Kenny's hair. Kenny sucks in a breath, which breaks the spell – Butters' hand lowers back to his side, flopping like a dead fish into the wrinkled sheets. Ignoring the pang of disappointment that forces his heart against his rib cage, Kenny reaches out instead, fixing Butters' lighter, shorter hair so that it sits straighter over the top of his forehead.

"You got nice hands," Butters says.

They stop speaking after that. When Butters settles back down, Kenny moves their bodies closer together, though keeping the blanket barrier between them. He runs his hand through Butters' hair twice more before Kenny pulls himself back, sighs, and closes his eyes.

What comes after is hours of some of the best sleep that he's had in years.

On a typical day in autumn or winter, Kenny wakes up freezing his skinny ass off. Here it is, the twenty-third of November, and he should be shivering and cursing the lack of a proper heating system in his apartment. But he is not freezing. The blanket swaddling him seems warmer than usual, as though it's been doubled. Then he remembers –

Butters.

Kenny cracks open his eyes, staring at first at the stained ceiling above him. He shifts onto his side, little sparks of pain shooting up the backs of his legs as he rotates. He grunts at the unpleasant sensation.

It must be midday already, and Butters is still here. He's facing away from Kenny, curled up on top of the covers, still in jeans and a t-shirt, though his shoes have been kicked off, revealing socks patterned in snowmen. It makes Kenny smile. When he realizes this, he can't pinpoint why. Butters' socks shouldn't make him want to grin.

Kenny scoots forward so that his body leans right up against Butters', Kenny's chest to Butters' back. Kenny's nose brushes against the back of Butters' neck. Butters sighs in his sleep as though he feels this. The smell of Butters is something that Kenny hasn't experienced before. It's something faintly lemony underneath the aroma of moderately priced soap and human skin. It's a clean smell, a safe smell – in that it smells like somebody that can afford good soap and long showers. Kenny, on impulse, presses his lips against the smooth skin there.

"Are you awake?" Kenny mumbles, his lips ghosting against Butters' throat. His voice comes out deeper than usual, like it always does in the mornings.

"Yeah, I have been," Butters says.

He's been awake while Kenny smelled his neck, then. And when he kissed it. Why is he kissing Butters? He can't remember, but he doesn't quite care. Kenny's been doing all varieties off odd shit with this man, touching his hair and inviting him to spend the night, later commanding him not to leave.

"Looks like you've got some morning wood, Stotch," Kenny says, amused.

Butters turns his face to look back at Kenny, his cheeks bright pink. He says, "I – uh – sorry."

"Mm, nothing to be sorry for," Kenny replies, "Why don't you let me take care of it?" This isn't clinical, like when Kenny's at work. His offer isn't like what he does at his job. This is no rinse and repeat he's extending to Butters. Kenny finds his throat abruptly closing up. He swallows the lump that forms in it, and starts to draw his body away, embarrassed.

"Hey," protests Butters, "Do you always offer to put your hand on somebody's dick and then just get out of bed like it never happened?"

Kenny laughs awkwardly, but it's a real laugh, not the sort of laugh that he uses when one of his clients thinks that they're being clever when they spew the dumbest shit to get to Kenny's ears.

"You know, you look pretty nice when you're blushin'," Butters says coyly.

Kenny reaches up and feels his face. Sure enough, Butters hasn't lied to him. His cheeks are as hot as they would be if he had fever. He remarks, "Well, I'll be damned. That shit doesn't happen too much." It doesn't – Kenny's occupation doesn't afford him the luxury of being embarrassed. He _is_ embarrassed about it, but not necessarily in that he does sex work, more in that people find him disgusting because of it. He doesn't like certain aspects about working at Polly, but isn't it the same with every job? A job is a job, and as much as Kenny's been hating the one he has lately, he knows lots of folks that can't find work at all. He tells himself that he should be grateful, not quite feeling it, but deciding that he'll work on that.

"I don't wantcha to feel obligated," Butters rambles on, "But – um – ah, well, it's just that that actually sounds rather nice. The part about taking care of my – um."

Kenny slides back to where he'd been before, spooning Butters with the barrier of the blanket between them. He commands, "Let me do the work, 'kay? Keep your hands to yourself."

"Can I at least kiss you?" asks Butters timidly.

Kenny's hand instinctively flies to his chest when his insides start to hurt. He gives a silent nod of assent, and Butters tips himself forward to push their lips together. It's a pleasant kiss, although it tastes mostly of morning breath. Butters has soft lips that never seem to chap like Kenny's do. They're fuller than Kenny's, too.

When Kenny looks down, he sees that Butters has balled his hands into fists again, to prevent himself from grabbing at Kenny. He's kept his gloves on this entire time, even to bed.

"You can lean your head against me," Kenny says, voice steady. Butters fidgets with his hands for a fleeting second before he presses himself back against Kenny more fully, tilting his head against Kenny's shoulder.

Kenny strokes Butters' hair with his left hand. It's sticking up in places. Kenny smiles at it. It makes Butters look younger, a stark contrast to the strained, serious Butters that he woke up earlier in the morning. With his other hand, Kenny strokes up, reaching underneath Butters' t-shirt to feel along his chest. He's not a hairy man. His chest is smooth and warm. He shudders into Kenny's touch, whimpering a little – though the sound is not at all like the ones that Butters made a few hours earlier.

Kenny lowers his hand, unbuttoning the fly of Butters' jeans, unzipping slowly.

"Oh, jeez," Butters sucks in a breath when Kenny runs his knuckles lightly over the length. Kenny chuckles, not having enjoyed a reaction to his ministrations so much in longer than he can remember. Sex before his drugged-out days is hard to remember anyhow, being nothing more remarkable than eager teenagers hasty to get off. This is different. This is slow. Once upon a time, Kenny would have told you that slow is a bad thing when speaking of sex.

At last, Kenny grips Butters' erection loosely, working a familiar movement that seems abruptly foreign. He keeps telling himself, this isn't clinical. This isn't rinse, wash and repeat. This is real. Butters is really quaking in his arms, he is really making those soft sounds, he is really hard and really in Kenny's hand. _Real. _

Butters rubs back against Kenny as Kenny's hand works faster. If there'd been no blanket between their bodies, Butters would have hooked their legs together.

When Butters comes, he makes a guttural noise in his throat. Kenny's surprised, a little, mostly because he never imagined that such a noise could come from such a person. But then, he never would have predicted a lot of things that have been happening recently. He likes this, though, and doesn't want to fight against it. He's rather inclined to help it along, instead.

"Be right back," Kenny says. He slides out of the bed and into the bathroom, where he wipes his hand on a towel.

He tosses said towel to Butters when he returns to the bedroom. Butters catches it, despite looking cross-eyed and dazed.

And what should settle in Kenny's stomach then but the familiar feeling of dread – of realizing that this man is the son of the guy he's fucking for money, that this man is a kid he grew up with, that this man saw him when he came crashing down into drugs and homelessness. This man is Leopold fucking Stotch. He's not just _some guy_, he's somebody that's meant something over the years. They've done school projects together. They've gotten drunk together. They went to fucking preschool together.

While Butters mops up his stomach, Kenny crawls back under the covers, unwilling to leave the bed yet. It's warm and smells like Butters now. The scent makes him feel lighter. Not lightheaded, really, but a little dizzy, and a little calm. Lighter.

"Where should I put this?" Butters has the decency to look embarrassed when he holds up the towel that he just used to clean up his come.

Kenny laughs and says, "Just toss it on the floor. I don't care."

"Well, if you're sure," Butters says uncertainly. He doesn't toss it, though. He merely drops it, glancing over his shoulder as he does, like he's making sure that he's following Kenny's instructions correctly.

Butters lays back down, and they stretch out together, faces so close that they're almost nose to nose. Kenny feels as though he is in the middle of a strange high, like he's in the middle of a Salvador Dali painting, with everything around him melting. He's melting. He kisses Butters again, and it's tender. He feels so strange, almost like he's ill. The thrill in his insides feels almost like the one he gets when he knows that he is about to die, but…the opposite. He is feeling the opposite of death – but how is it possible that it feels so much like dying?

Kenny takes Butters' gloved hands in his and asks, "Is it okay if I see them?"

Butters looks torn. Though he doesn't say anything, he nods his head, looking reluctant. How is it that it was easier for Butters to let Kenny see his dick than his hands?

Kenny slides off the gloves, placing them one on top of the other neatly by their feet.

Butters is trembling.

When he sees Butters' hands again – the pink, stretched, ruined skin, Kenny knows how much pain must have had to happen to make them look like that. Butters may not be able to die and return to earth like Kenny can, but he has felt pain. He's been through a whole crock pot of shit, starting with the fact that he grew up in a shitty, broken home like Kenny's. Maybe Butters folks were worse. At least Kenny's parents put their hatred for one another on display. Butters' parents kept their hatred quiet until it manifested in their behavior toward their son.

Kenny lifts Butters' left hand and presses his lips against it. He doesn't know why. You can't just 'kiss and make better' what did this to these hands.

Butters swallows. He says, "A hammer."

"Hm?" Kenny's didn't realize that his eyes were closed until he has to open them again to look at his companion.

"They took a hammer to my hands," Butters says, "they broke all my fingers. And then they burned 'em up." Butters often looks as though he might cry, and he looks like that now – but Kenny notices that Butters never actually _does_ cry. His eyes just well up. It's like he stops himself from doing it.

Kenny tugs Butters into a hug. It's impulsive. He doesn't like hugging people that aren't his sister, but this okay, somehow. Then Kenny notices that Butters isn't returning the hug, and wonders if something is wrong, until Butters queries in a whisper, "Is it okay if I hug you back? I don't wanna do it if you don't like touching or nothin'."

Kenny smiles into Butters' neck and says, "It's alright. Go ahead."

Butters pulls his arms around Kenny gingerly. They sit there, cradling each other almost as though they are each other's experiment.

"Can I tell you something?" Butters asks.

"You can tell me anything," Kenny says, and he means it.

"I don't think I regret going to war…but sometimes I wonder if I woulda been better off if I didn't. I know I got a Purple Heart and all now and it makes people like me a lot more than they used to, but I think I mighta liked to be a regular guy," Butters says.

"You have a Purple Heart?" Kenny looks up sharply. Of course Butters has one. He was a Prisoner of War. He got his men out so that they wouldn't be caught like he got caught. He had his hands destroyed, "Nevermind, of course you do," Kenny says, stroking Butters' mussed hair again, "I think I'd like you whether you had no Purple Hearts or ten of them."

"…Thanks, Ken," he says into Kenny's shirt.

They only lay there for a few more minutes before Butters offers to make them some of the instant pancakes he saw in Kenny's food cabinet, and Kenny says that he has to shower. As always, he sings himself something that suits the mood. Today it's a little bit of the blues – it always seems to be lately. Maybe he should invest in a harmonica. They're a lot cheap than a guitar would be, and Kenny's wanted a guitar of his own for just about forever.

When Kenny emerges from his room freshly showered and in a new (although the cleanliness is debatable) set of clothes, Butters has laid out the instant pancakes on the table with a glass of the cheap, watery orange juice from Kenny's fridge. The man himself is scrubbing Kenny's frying pan at the sink, looking domestic.

Kenny could get used to this. It's nice to have somebody around that makes you smile and makes you food. Karen's the only other person that can make him grin or chuckle or laugh, but she can't cook for shit. Not that Kenny blames her. He can't cook for shit, either.

As Kenny dumps a generous load of Mrs. Butterworth's syrup onto his pancakes, Butters' phone starts to ring. The sure sign that it's Butters' phone and nobody else's is the ringtone – it sounds like cartoon-y, and Kenny prides himself on knowing songs once he's heard them a single time. It sounds like –

"Is that from Princess and the Frog?" Kenny asks, not sure whether it would be okay to laugh. "Dig A Little Deeper." He _would_.

"I like this song," Butters says, affronted when he hears the teasing tone of Kenny's voice. He turns away and answers with a, "Hello?"

In about a half-second, Butters' contented face falls.

"What'd she do?" Butters asks, but he doesn't seem to get an answer, and panic registers on his face. He goes on, "Tell her I'll be there soon."

"What's going on?" Kenny asks. He sets down his fork, feeling less ravenous than he was only seconds ago.

"I don't know," Butters says, searching for his coat. He pulls it on when he finds it draped over the arm of the couch, and sprints back into Kenny's bedroom to retrieve his shoes. As he shoves them onto his feet, he says, "The folks at Hell's Pass just called. My mom freaked out again. I guess Mrs. Tweak found her. Shit. I'm so irresponsible. I can't t-take c-care of a g-goddamned thing." Kenny knows it's bad when he hears the return of Butters' stutter, the disappearance of which he hadn't even noticed.

"You're not irresponsible, fuckwit," Kenny says back, "You just try to take care of too many people. If it wasn't for you, I don't know what shape my legs would be in." He'd probably have died from an infection within a couple of days, actually. It's happened before. Kenny's legs are stiff and achey as it is, and he'll have to figure out how to work out the kinks before he returns to work in three days. At least they get a few nights off for Thanksgiving. Kenny's grateful for the holiday, despite not having anybody to celebrate with this year.

"Ken, I – " Butters begins, but quickly loses his words. He stammers, "Y-you're great."

Kenny claps him on the back and kisses him. The kisses are still soft – still hesitant and new. Kenny's hands shake when they kiss. He wonders if he'll ever get used to having lips on his.

Butters rushes out with a hurried second kiss, then. Leaving Kenny alone with his dog, who looks alarmingly pleased from her little corner on Kenny's couch. He tosses Esther a look and says, "Yeah, I know. He's pretty cute, ain't he?"

**o.o.o.o**

Kenny's first order of business on Thanksgiving morning is to go to Tweak Bros. It's not open for long on Thanksgiving, only a few hours in the morning, but it's all the time that Kenny needs to satisfy his pumpkin latte tradition.

He likes South Park on Thanksgiving. Or, perhaps not _like_, but more that he is not as bothered by his surroundings as he is typically. It's quiet. Nobody's outside. Everybody is sleeping in or starting on their cooking or is out of town.

But there are some people that stay solidly where they are. Like Tweek. Tweek may be a little beyond nutty and have abandonment issues because of his flighty guinea-pig-loving boyfriend, but he's always behind the counter at Tweak Bros, always wearing a smile so delicate Kenny thinks that talking too loudly could break it. Tweek is constant. He's always been constant.

When Kenny was a street rat druggie, Tweek never missed a day of leaving him coffee. He always came.

Thus, even if Tweek is off-putting and clingy (which he is), Kenny isn't bothered. He doesn't get tired of Tweek.

"Hey Kenny," he chirrups, when Kenny enters the coffee shop, making the bell at the door tinkle overhead, "Where's Karen?"

"With her fiancé," Kenny mutters, shelling out the cash to pay for his pumpkin latte.

Tweek waves his wrinkled dollar bills away with the flick of his wrist. Tweek has nice hands. They're dry looking and pale, and he has multicolored neon Band-Aids wrapped around nine out of ten of the fingers, right at the cuticle, but they're long-fingered, like a piano player's hands.

"So, did Craig come home?" asks Kenny. He doesn't know why he does this, other than to intentionally provoke Tweek – which is kind of an asshole thing to do on Thanksgiving, but Kenny isn't in a charitable mood at the moment. Not at all. He just wants to get his latte and, since his DVD player is broken and he can't watch The Lord of the Rings movies like he does every year, he's decided that he'll read the books. The trilogy makes up some of the only actual, solid books that Kenny owns. Most of the time, he's too exhausted to read. That, and he's a slow reader. He used to scorn reading and write it off as a waste of his time, but he's grown to like it. Sometimes, books can be even better escapes than comics or television. Not all the time, but sometimes.

Tweek shakes his head vigorously as he runs the machines behind the counter. He says, "Not this year. Maybe he'll come next year! He has to come back sometime, right?"

Kenny isn't so sure that Craig "has" to do anything, but he says, "Yeah. He'll come back sometime." He'd feel bad for lying to Tweek if Tweek didn't love being lied to so much. He's so willing to believe whatever he's told – it was funny to fuck with him when they were teenagers, but now they're not, and Tweek's hopefulness and naiveté twist Kenny's gut up with an achey sadness instead of amusement.

"Maybe Craig misses me," rambles Tweek, "Maybe he sent me a letter because he knew he couldn't come home for Thanksgiving. Maybe it's in my mailbox right now! Oh, Jesus, do you think that I should go home and check?"

"Maybe," Kenny says, but he amends, "but you should probably finish your shift first."

Tweek wilts a little and mumbles, "Oh. Right." He sets Kenny's completed drink on the counter, smiling politely, but sadly, and Kenny feels bad all over again.

Tweek is a good person. Fucked up, but good. Sometimes Kenny thinks that while the rest of them grew up, Tweek stayed a kid inside his adult body. And now, maybe he doesn't know what to do with this bigger body and this world where his mom can't make him tea and tuck him in at night.

Kenny scrapes his mind for something encouraging to say to Tweek, to tell him that it'll be okay, but the thing that actually comes out of Kenny's mouth is, "Dude, you need to get laid." Not that Kenny is offering himself, because he isn't. He would be feel bad for fucking the resident town crazy. Wait, no, that's Linda Stotch. Or maybe Cartman. Shit, South Park houses a lot of head cases, doesn't it?

"Dude, no way!" exclaims Tweek, "You probably have all sorts of diseases."

"Thanks, Tweek," Kenny says wryly. He should be offended, maybe. But Tweek's not exactly all there, so Kenny decides not to offended and just take it in stride. The guy thinks _everything_ is covered in diseases. Kenny goes on to say, "And I wasn't talking about me, you dumb twat. Find somebody clean and get laid. That's all I'm saying."

"I'll take your advice into consideration," Tweek says solemnly.

"Happy Thanksgiving," is how Kenny says goodbye.

Tweek says goodbye with a startled, "Do you _know_ what turkey has in it?"

Kenny sips his latte and smokes through two cigarettes on his way home. He stops at the gas station and purchases a lottery ticket for good measure, but comes up with three mismatched items on the card, and tosses it onto the sidewalk, unsurprised, but still disappointed.

His legs are shaking again by the time that he closes his apartment door behind him. They hurt like hell, and the thought of killing himself to get a new set of legs flashes across his mind. So he goes rifling through his closet, looking for his piece. He'll shoot himself and be done with it. He keeps it in a beaten old shoebox at the bottom of his closet, underneath his hoarded t-shirts and assorted random crap, mostly comics.

Bingo.

Kenny extracts the box from the depths of his closet and sets it on his bed, opening the lid.

Behind him, Esther whines. She doesn't like it when he kills himself. It frightens her. He thinks that it's the noise of the gun more than anything, because a gunshot started off the dog fights where she was trained to battle other pitbulls.

But then, there is a rhythmic knock on his apartment door. Kenny doesn't know anyone that knocks that way. His land lord's knock is timid, as if the bastard remembers the blow job Kenny gave him every time that he knocks on Kenny's door. Cartman's knock is hard and direct, business-like. Nobody else knocks on his door.

The thought that it could be Karen crosses his mind, and his heart leaps at the idea. Maybe he'll get to spend Thanksgiving with somebody, after all. Maybe he won't be alone for this shitty holiday. He closes the shoe box and marches to the door.

But it's not Karen.

"Heya, Ken," says Butters.

In his arms, he holds a huge plastic bin, but that isn't what catches Kenny's eye.

"Butters, why are you wearing an apron?" asks Kenny, giving him a skeptical look as he parades his way into the living room.

Butters doesn't respond right away. He peels back the lid of the bin, and suddenly, the scent of Thanksgiving is wafting out of it and permeating the air. Butters says, "My mom doesn't like my cooking, and she's in the hospital and they got food there for them. So, I thought maybe you'd wanna have a good solid meal. You're skin and bone, mister."

Kenny peers into the bin as Butters begins to take things out.

There's an entire Saran wrapped turkey inside, all cooked up and smelling like _heaven_. That isn't all that Butters has brought, however. There's a Tupperware bowl of homemade mashed potatoes, stuffing, sweet potato balls, cranberry salad, and –

"Is that _pie_?" Kenny asks, as Butters unloads the last items.

"Sure is," Butters cheerily replies, "I made two, 'cause I didn't know if you liked apple or pumpkin better."

Everything that Butters has brought looks like the cover of a cooking magazine.

"You made all this?" Kenny doesn't even know how he's supposed to react. First of all, he didn't know that it was fucking _possible_ to make this much food, let alone that people actually have the inclination to do so. There's so much of it, and it all looks so good. It looks like the best food that Kenny's ever seen in his life, in fact.

"Yup," Butters chirps, "You look like you need a good meal in you. And I didn't want you t-to be lonely, 'cause your sister couldn't spend Thanksgiving with you."

"Fuck," Kenny says, because what _can _he say?

Butters frowns, "Did I do something wrong?"

"Fuck no," Kenny responds, but he's still fucking gob smacked, "If this is what I get for giving you a hand job, I will give you as many fucking hand jobs as your heart desires."

Butters blushes as he peels the Saran wrap from the Turkey. He stares down at the cooked bird and mumbles at his hands, "I did it 'cause I like you, not 'cause you put your hand on my dick. I wanted to cook for you before anybody took their cock out, anyway."

Kenny guffaws. He can't help it. He doesn't know what to do with this amount of happiness. Are people even _allowed_ to be this happy? Surely something this wonderful has to be illegal. He runs his hands through his hair, laughing, before he ducks forward and yanks Butters into a hug.

It's like he's living in a fucking Lifetime holiday special.

"You gonna leave presents under my Christmas tree, too?" Kenny asks cheekily.

Butters mutters, "Oh, I'll leave my presents under your tree, alright."

Kenny's laughing again, and he's so happy that he wishes he could lift Butters up and spin him around or something cheesy like that, but Butters, though at least four inches shorter, is solid muscle. Kenny is just skinny and underfed.

"Why don't you make yourself useful and set the table while I carve up the turkey?" Butters suggests. Kenny is only too happy to oblige.

He doesn't have nice china or silverware, so they eat on plastic plates with flimsy forks. Kenny hasn't ever eaten like such a King. He wants to try everything at least three times, and so he does – resulting in him being so full that he doesn't want to do a single thing but fall back onto his bed and nap until he's thirty. Butters, at least, seems to agree with this sentiment. After they wrap the leftovers up and Butters insists that Kenny keep them, tucking the turkey and the potatoes and the cranberry salad into the fridge, next to the beer and container of old leftover Easy Mac.

They collapse together on Kenny's bed. Kenny doesn't give a shit about being skin on skin at the moment. He's too full and euphoric to think about it. He simply sets his head down on Butters' chest and curls his legs around Butters' legs. This is how they fall asleep.

It's also how they wake up three hours later, warm and ready for pie, which Kenny was upset that he'd been too full for earlier.

They set up camp with Esther on Kenny's couch and start up the Fellowship of the Ring on Butters' laptop while they eat what Kenny would swear is _God's own pie_. Butters says he won't be able to stay for the entire movie, that he's going to read to his mom at Hell's Pass before the whole day is out. He also says, however, that Kenny is welcome to borrow his laptop so that he can watch all three of the Lord of the Rings.

When Butters has to pack up and head for the hospital to see his mom, he says shyly, "I hope the food was okay."

Kenny replies honestly, "It was the best damned food I've eaten in my life."

At this, Butters turns pink, and proceeds to go even pinker when Kenny traps his lips in a long, heated, pie-flavored kiss.

After Butters has gone, the sun has set, and Kenny is mid-way through watching The Two Towers with Esther sprawled across his lap, he thinks that today has been one of the best he's ever had.

**o.o.o.o**

**Okay. So, firstly, let me apologize for taking so long to get this chapter out. I have a fulltime job that occasionally explodes with a million tasks, and it has been that way recently. I will try not to take so long with future chapters! D:**

**Next, I just want to clear this up: Stan is not a bad guy! He's just worried about Kenny and Kenny is annoyed with that.**

**Also, if you want to check out fanart for this and other fics, I have a whole huge list on my profile of beautiful art from lovely human beings. **

**Aaaaand if you have a tumblr, my URL is the same – scarlettshazam. I do talk about what I'm doing with my fics, but I also post a lot of weird art and sarcasm. **

**And of course, I couldn't do this without the incredible people that help me along the way, my reviewers: Lying Honesty, Chasing Rabbits, KirstenTheDestroyer, 1220McCormick, AccountNOPE, Crazy88inator, RaiineDays, KeiMaxwell, Kuutamolla, Wendlekins, MariePierre, Reverse Psychology, prettyoddrydonfan, eecurzio, conversefreak3, Mallory, and TheAwesome15. **


	9. The Things That You're Doin'

**Chapter Track: I Put A Spell On You – Creedence Clearwater Revival **

Kenny starts to drift in and out of sleep toward the end of The Two Towers. He loves his Thanksgiving traditions, but it's sometimes difficult to uphold 10+ hours of movie watching. And today, he's discovered that it's even harder to stay awake when your stomach is so full that you feel like you could skip eating for another century. Simultaneously, Butters' cooking is tempting him still, and he wishes that he didn't have to be full so that he could shovel more turkey or potatoes or cranberry salad or pie or _anything _into his mouth.

It's right around the time when Kenny is between falling asleep and debating the pros and cons of getting up and cutting himself another slice of pumpkin pie when there's knocking at his door.

"Who in the fuck could that be?" Kenny mutters to his pitbull, jolted out of his sleepy haze, now.

As with when Butters showed up at his door earlier in the day, he wonders if it's Karen. She said that she would try to drop by if she could spare the time, but that she wasn't sure she could, since she was on call for the hospital beginning in the early evening. It's well past evening now, dwindling into "the middle of the night" territory.

Kenny finally makes himself get up off of the couch when the knocking doesn't stop. It's probably his douchebag landlord coming to bitch about the rent or something.

But it isn't.

"Nope," Kenny simplifies when he sees Stan and – Kenny takes a moment to take the second person in – Kyle.

Stan jams his foot in between the door and the frame and says, "Dude, c'mon. Hear us out. We're worried. Like really worried. Just listen."

"I said _no_. Just fuck off," Kenny feels his heart begin to thump angrily, his ears buzzing and his blood pumping furiously. He doesn't want them in here. He doesn't Stan and Kyle to know how he lives. He knows that Stan has already seen his apartment but he'd been in too much pain to care, but now that he's more lucid, he's upset that they're here. He wants Stan and Kyle to stay where they should be – firmly in his past. They haven't been his friends for at least ten years, so they can't just fucking waltz back into his life and pretend to be his friend again.

Stan doesn't move his foot, even as Kenny presses the door closed.

It's Kyle that intervenes. He starts to force the door open from the other side. It works. Kyle shoves the door open with such force that Kenny is tossed back, falling onto the floor on his ass.

Esther steps in. She barks at Stan and Kyle as they enter the apartment and close the door behind them, before she charges, and jumps onto Kyle.

"Esther. _Esther, down_," Kenny orders. She stops, glancing at Kenny, as if telling him, '_but you don't want them here._' He gives her a look right back and snaps his fingers. With a canine huff, she turns away from Kyle and comes to Kenny's side, where he still sits on the cold floor.

Kenny has to admit, Kyle doesn't look anything like what he used to. Last Kenny has seen Kyle, it had been a brief glance several years ago, during the holidays. Kyle had been at the grocery store with Ike. He'd looked like a clean-cut, typical college kid: New jeans, expensive shoes, well-cut ski jacket, cashmere scarf. Now, he looks…not like Kyle. Not like any Kyle Broflovski that Kenny has known, in any case.

His hair is still the same bushy, curly mess, it's just more of a mane. It's so long that Kyle has it tied back, and it sort of…flows. Down his neck and past the collar of his shirt. He wears thick-framed glasses and looks thinner than before, but not unhealthy. Kyle was always built with a little extra, a body type courtesy of Sheila's genes. Now he looks lean and physically fit.

It's fucking annoying how good they both look, actually.

While Stan looks tired, he also looks happy. He has a family. He has a life, probably a good one, based upon his Average Joe middle class man clothing.

Kenny pushes himself up off of the floor and decides that this situation calls for beer. He can't speak to these two sober. He opens the fridge silently and holds up a bottle asking, "Want one?"

"I don't drink anymore," Stan says, holding up a defensive hand.

"I'd rather not," Kyle says. He has this snotty tone to his voice. Kenny gets it. It's cheap beer. Kyle has always seemed like an expensive beer guy, even now, in his suspiciously hipster getup. At least he's not wearing a fedora. That would be the icing on the cake.

"Suit yourselves," Kenny says. He uses the edge of the counter to pop the lid and takes a long swallow. No amount of beer in the world could make this situation more tolerable, he thinks. Despite thinking that, he takes only a few breaths before imbibing a second generous swallow of beer before asking, "Okay, what do you want?"

"I'm worried," Stan says plainly.

"About?"

"I don't know, maybe your job?" Stan replies pointedly.

"That's not really your business, is it?" Kenny asks, "Seriously. On what planet do you have a right to barge into somebody's apartment without their permission and tell them that you're worried about their job? You don't even know me, Stan. We haven't spoken in like a decade."

"We grew up together," Stan says, sounding exasperated. He has the nerve to look hurt, like Kenny telling him that a decade of not speaking warrants some space between them. Like that's fucking news. Why is it news to these people that they're not friends anymore?

Kenny is already halfway through his beer. He's considering breaking out the hard liquor for this occasion, or maybe even the last of his weed. He responds, "Dude, I grew up with everybody in this town. As far as I can tell, you're the only asshole that thinks it's okay to go parading into a stranger's home at almost fucking midnight. Do you see Tweek in here? Wendy? No."

"You were our best friend, man," Kyle breaks in, "You don't just pretend that it didn't happen."

"Yeah? Well, you guys pretended we weren't friends, right about when I needed you most. So why don't you go fuck yourselves on the way out, okay?" Kenny downs more beer. He stumbles out of the kitchen and searches for his coat – the cigarettes are in the front pocket.

He extracts them and lights one up, sighing out smoke. He almost chuckles when he thinks about how he's been smoking since thirteen, and logically, he should look prematurely aged. He wonders if anybody is ever going to ask him about his deaths. If anybody will ever say, "Gee, Kenny, why don't you have track marks on your arms, or scars all over your body, or fucked up teeth?" Kenny's teeth are a little crooked, like anybody's, but they're nice and white and he never gets cavities because he gets a new set with every death.

"You should probably quit that," Kyle advises.

"You should probably get bent, but I'm not complaining," Kenny snaps back, puffing on the end of his cigarette to illustrate how much he cares for Kyle and Stan's unsolicited advice on what he should and should not be doing with his body and his life.

If there's one thing that Kenny can't stand, it's self-righteous pricks that know nothing about nothing telling him what he should do. It seems to him that the people most willing to dole out advice he gives zero shits about are the same people that have no life experience themselves. Really, who the fuck is Kyle to tell Kenny what to do? Kyle grew up with a full belly, without parents that hit each other and then hit their kids, without meth cooking in the back yard or being passed from foster home to foster home and back to his parents again. Kyle got to go to college. He probably has some fancy job with some fancy title that pays him six figures.

Fucking Kyle.

Fucking Stan, with his happy fucking little family and his beautiful wife.

They'll never know this pain. They've never been owned by their drug dealers, never been so desolate that only drugs could erase the misery. They never will be. They won't die until the very end. As far as Kenny knows, these two are supposed to live long, full lives. Not that he's privy to death's decisions, exactly.

Kenny finishes his beer and tosses it into the trash, upon which Kyle asks, "Have you considered recycling?"

"Have you considered sucking my dick?" Kenny shoots back.

"Guys, please," When Kenny comes up from his liquor cabinet with a bottle of Jack, Stan is giving Kyle the 'shut up, now, please' look. The last time Kenny saw that expression on Stan's face was probably during a Kyle/Cartman argument, way back in high school. Stan seems to have perfected the 'stop that' look, however, likely an aftereffect of having children.

"Kenny, Kyle and I want to take you back to California," Stan says.

"I already told you that I can't," Kenny says.

"Why not?"

"I already told you that, too," Kenny downs a shot of the whiskey. He wants the day to rewind. His heart is hurting for earlier today, when he was laughing over a sumptuous Thanksgiving dinner with a handsome, blond man with the smile of a child, when he was kissing this man, when they were cuddled up together and watching The Lord of the Rings. Kenny continues, "I owe Cartman a lot of money, dude. I can't leave. He owns everything around here. The police in the entire county are in his pocket. They'd chase us down before we made it to Bailey."

Stan and Kyle exchange a glance, looking like parents wondering what to do with their disobedient child.

Kenny adds, "It's not that bad."

"Isn't that bad? Somebody beat the living shit out of your legs!" Stan's voice cracks a little. He says, "It was fucking scary, dude. Are you – are they – how are your legs feeling?"

"Sore," Kenny admits, "But Butters did a good job wrapping them up."

"Butters?" Kyle says, "What does he have to do with this?"

Kenny almost says _everything_, but instead says, "Oh-ho-ho! Looks like Stanny-boy doesn't tell you everything, does he?"

"What is he talking about?" Kyle asks Stan.

"Butters was there, too. On the night I was telling you about," Stan says.

"He picks me up after work," Kenny says, "Because he's a damned nice guy. And he doesn't bother me about my job, by the way, which is perfectly acceptable. At least I have one. Most people don't."

"Why don't you care more?" Stan asks, "You – I – Fuck. I've never seen anything like that, Kenny. You were fucked up. And that's just okay?"

"Yup," Kenny responds.

He knows he's not being entirely honest. He knows that he's feeding Stan half-truths about the job. He hates being beaten to hell. He hates people's hands on him. But in way, he works two separate jobs. He works his stripper job, and then his illegal work as a nighttime paramour for the desperate. The former isn't terrible. He can deal with stripping. He does his job well. And during the stripping portion of his job, there's a no-touching rule to be followed by the clientele. Cartman kicks folks out if they put their hands on his dancers.

Being an actual hooker couldn't be more different. They _always_ want their hands on you. They want to feel you up and they think that you like it, so they do it more. They get rougher. They think you're a doll, like somehow, selling sex takes away your humanity.

Kenny hates that part.

But, he also thinks about how he doesn't mind it as much if Butters is there with him at the end of the night.

He likes having somebody constant.

But the constancy scares him, too.

What if Butters didn't want to give him rides home anymore? What if Butters just stopped showing up?

What if Butters doesn't like Kenny in the way that Kenny likes Butters?

Shit.

Kenny pours himself another shot of Jack Daniels.

"I can't trust you guys," Kenny says, "Sorry. But you ditched me when I needed you. So you can get fucked, as far as I'm concerned."

Stan ignores him. He asks, "What did Butters mean? When he said it was his dad that – um." Stan makes a vague circular gesture at Kenny's legs, which are thankfully clad in sweatpants. He'd be embarrassed if he'd been walking around in his underwear and revealed the wounds to the two of them. Not that he would walk around in his underwear at this time of year with the heat broken. It's fucking freezing. He owns a million pairs of socks for a reason.

Kenny weighs his options. He's already embarrassed. Stan already knows, despite asking for confirmation. He knows that Stan was listening to every word exchanged that night. He knows that Stephen Stotch is the one that put the marks on his legs, Stan merely doesn't want to acknowledge that he already has that knowledge. He's waiting for Kenny's confirmation to be horrified.

"I'm fucking him for money," Kenny decides upon saying, tipping the shot down his throat.

He is not nearly as drunk as he needs to be.

Stan stares at the bottle as Kenny prepares a third shot. He swallows a lump in his throat, and Kyle places a hand on Stan's shoulder. He asks, "Dude, can you put that away?"

"What – oh," Kenny says, remembering Stan's struggle with alcohol. When everything fell apart, Stan had gotten pretty bad. Kenny, however, does not heed Kyle's request. He says instead, "I asked you to leave, but you're still here. The door's over there if you don't want to see what I do in the privacy of my own home."

"I've been sober for four years," Stan says quietly.

"Cool, I've been clean for six years. You want an award or something?" Kenny snips.

"Kenny, you're being a dick," Kyle tells him.

"So? You guys don't know me. I _am_ a dick," Kenny replies. Even though he wanted to petulant, he feels a bit guilty for leaving out the alcohol in front of Stan. It seems too childish, even for him. Kenny is familiar with the struggle for sobriety. His new bodies don't remember having heroin in them, but sometimes he thinks that his mind does. His mind remembers what it was like to be so fucked up that you didn't have to think about a single damned thing.

After much consideration, Kenny has decided that he likes having to think more. Thinking reminds him not to go back to what he became.

"No, you're not," Stan insists, as Kenny tucks the whiskey back into his liquor cabinet and sets the shot glass on top of the dirty dishes from his Thanksgiving meal with Butters. Stan goes on, "I saw you with Butters, man. You were all – um. Like, sweet with him."

"Butters is different!" Kenny exclaims. He doesn't want anybody else to talk about Butters. Butters is fucking special. He's Kenny's slice of something that's _good_ in this world. He's just this tiniest bit of happiness that Kenny gets to have. Maybe Kenny doesn't deserve that happiness, but he wants it. He loves it. So he'll cherish it as it comes. He wants to stop talking about Butters. Stan and Kyle won't ruin this for him. They'll keep the hell out of it. He changes the subject, "You guys are fucking assholes, you know? You just like, abandoned me in high school."

"Shut up," Kyle says, "Seriously, shut up. You're fucking acting like we meant to. We didn't. Stan was – he was fucked up too, you know. And I tried to help both of you. I did. But it didn't fucking work, okay? Instead of helping anybody, I fucked up and helped nobody." Kenny has no idea what Kyle is talking about.

"Yeah, I know I played second fiddle to Stan. Fucking thanks for reminding me," Kenny retorts.

All three of them go silent. Kenny stubs out his cigarette in his crappy ash tray and wanders to the couch. He releases a world-weary sigh and whistles for his dog, who is still staring at Stan and Kyle as though they intend to make off with the valuables at any moment. Not that Kenny owns any valuables.

"I'm sorry."

Kenny looks up.

Surprisingly, it wasn't Stan that said this. It was Kyle.

"I should have tried harder," Kyle says, "But we were just kids. I didn't know what I was doing, okay? But I still cared."

"We just want to make sure that you're okay," Stan says, voice soft. He sounds so fucking sad and so goddamned _fatherly. _Kenny feels like either punching Stan in the mouth or hugging him. Stan's always made Kenny feel that way.

In the end, Kenny does neither. He frowns and lies, "I'm fine, you guys."

"Are you sure?" asks Kyle, giving Kenny a scrutinizing look, "It's freezing in here. Does your heat work?"

"It's fine," Kenny says, dishonest, but wanting the conversation to come to a close. They're at a stalemate. It seems that, no matter how many bitter feelings are held, it's not actually anybody's fault. Kenny hates that. Kyle probably hates it even more. Kyle always did hate a situation so ambiguous that you can't point your finger at a culprit. All of them are guilty, and none of them are.

"We're leaving tomorrow morning," Stan says, "But we'll be back for Christmas. If you know, you know want to hang out and get coffee or something."

"I could bring you decent beer," Kyle offers jokingly.

"Yeah, sure. I guess that would be cool. Or whatever," Kenny says, with no intention of actually contacting either of them or letting them into his apartment ever again. He'll stick with being alone. It's easier to be alone. He doesn't need Stan and Kyle back in his life. They'd just fuss over him and worry about him, and he doesn't want that. Having people worry over him is stressful, and that's all that these two do.

"I hope you're not just saying that," Stan remarks.

Caught.

Kyle says, "C'mon, give me your number or something."

"I don't have texting," Kenny says. This time, he's telling the truth, for once. He can't afford texting.

"That's fine. I'll call you up if I'm in town, okay?" Kyle says, "I'm sure Stan will do the same."

"Definitely," Stan nods, "But with the kiddo and Wendy being pregnant and all, my schedule's a little warped. I would have been over sooner, but Chris has a cough and couldn't get to sleep, so I was delayed."

"I was busy, anyway," Kenny says.

"Cooking?" Kyle asks, sticking a thumb out at the Saran-wrapped pies on the counter.

"No, Butters made those," Kenny says honestly, "You guys know I can't cook for shit."

"Yeah, but who knows – you could have learned," Stan says, "Like when Kyle told me that he quit school to teach yoga, I about shat a brick."

Kenny lets out a bark of laughter, thinking that it's some big joke. But, when Stan and Kyle don't laugh with him, he goes silent and lifts his brows, "You're jerking my chain, right?"

"I find teaching yoga a very rewarding career," Kyle defends sourly, "And it helps keep me calm, you know?"

Kenny has never attempted yoga, but he says anyway, "Sure. Yeah."

The night ends on phone number exchanges and varied excuses on why they need to go home or why Kenny needs them to leave. It's awkward, and it kind of hurts. Once they're out, Kenny lets it go and takes Butters' laptop to his bed so that he can start The Return of the King, which he hopes he'll fall asleep to, while he's curled up with his pitbull.

**o.o.o.o**

On Monday, it snows. Kenny goes to work anyhow, walking through the freezing cold. The flakes are, at least, thankfully fluffy from the lack of humidity. If it had been wet show, he'd already be soaked through to the bone. Still, his clothes are damp when he sheds them in the dressing room, embarrassed by the fact that he's surrounded by women doing the same thing only on the basis that they see enough dick as it is. He'd rather that they didn't see his, too.

"You know, it's no wonder everybody wants your cock," says Sally.

"What? Why?" he asks, making an effort to pull his leather pants on faster, which proves difficult due to the state of his legs.

Mercedes pitches in, "You know, I was thinking the same thing last time I saw it."

"_What._"

"Ah, don't take it badly, Kenny, hun," says Mercedes, "It's just that it's very nicely shaped."

"As far as cocks go, it's got to be the prettiest that I've seen," puts in Portia.

Kenny tries not to roll his eyes.

He's about to sit down to apply his makeup when the door swings open. Cartman fills the frame completely, and looks like he's in one of his moods. He feels like he's been wronged, somehow, which means that one of the people in the dressing room is in deep shit, being on the receiving end of Eric Cartman's wrath. Kenny hopes it's not –

"Kinny."

Well, fuck.

"My office," Cartman says.

"I need to do my makeup –" Kenny begins.

"Not tonight. I don't think anybody will show up with this shit weather, anyway," Cartman says, "My office. Now."

Once there, Cartman indicates for Kenny to take a seat. He would rather stand, but knows not to go against Cartman when he's in a mood like this, so he plops down in one of the armchairs and folds his arms defensively.

Cartman sits across from him and folds his hands underneath his three chins. He speaks one word once they've situated themselves:

"Butters."

"What about him?" Kenny asks.

"I told you to be careful, asshole," Cartman says.

"I am being careful," Kenny defends, "We're not doing anything. Would you just calm your tits, fat boy?"

"Ey, fuck you! You're on thin ice, poor boy," Cartman points a fat finger in Kenny's face, "I'm fucking serious. I heard some chick at the grocery store yapping about Butters saying he's bringing you food. What the fuck, Kinny?"

"I didn't know!" Kenny exclaims.

"I figured," Cartman sighs, "That stupid asshole likes 'surprising' people or something gay like that. Used to try it on me in high school. Bringing cookies. What a dick. Do you want to me to _take care_ of him?"

"What? No," Kenny says, "Look. Butters and I are friends, okay? Friends. It's nice having him around. I'm not like, getting attached or anything. And it's not like I'm gonna talk about Butters when I'm fucking Stephen, you know? Can I have this? Please."

What a lie. If there's anything that Kenny's getting, it's getting attached. It's dangerous and Kenny knows that. Unfortunately, danger has never been a viable deterrent for Kenny McCormick.

Cartman glowers, looking torn. Some of Cartman's previous in-office lectures have included how Kenny needs to "get out" because the job is hard and he needs a way to escape that every once in awhile. Kenny had told Cartman that he has comic books and doesn't need people.

"Fine," Cartman finally says, "You can go. But remember, don't fucking get attached, you dumb piece of shit. And you don't need to get pretty tonight, poor boy. I'm closing the place down to discuss some recent things in the works."

Well, that's rare. Kenny doesn't like it, but he nods, stands, and returns to the dressing room to reassemble his street clothes, hoping that they're less damp, even if just by a little.

Cartman has them gather on the stage. Sometimes, Kenny finds it weird to see all his coworkers in their clothes. They're so – normal. Like him. Mercedes is wearing a grandma sweater over her clothes, for fuck's sake. Sally is more naturally provocative, though even seeing her in her low cut v-neck is strange. Kenny's used to them in pasties.

"I am certain you're wondering what this is all about," Cartman says, sounding very proud of himself. He does this when he's come up with some newfangled idea about how they should be dancing or how their next shitty half-naked production should play out.

"I've got some news," continues Cartman.

"Aw, just spit it out, Eric," says Sally.

Cartman turns his glare on her, but she glares right back. He frowns. Cartman starts cracking his knuckles, his telltale sign of getting to business, and clears his throat. He says, "We've been _invited_ to perform something in Denver. Apparently they've caught wind of my brilliant style." By 'brilliant style' Cartman actually means performing perfectly decent plays and musicals, but doing it with less clothing and about ten times the sexual innuendo. It was only a matter of time before it caught on.

"Polly's own aspiring writer has offered up her screenplay," Cartman says vaguely.

He can't possibly mean –

"Bebe, come onstage," Cartman says, waving her over.

Traitor. How could she conspire with Cartman to make them perform in some thinly veiled orgy in fucking _Denver_ of all places? Logically, Kenny knows that Denver isn't a big city, but at heart he will always be a small-town boy. There are too many people in cities. Too many ways to die. At least with South Park, he knows what places to avoid. Denver seems to always be under construction, providing about ten million potential deaths. Kenny distrusts the place.

There's some halfhearted applause as Bebe steps up and stands beside Cartman. He says, "I really like Bebe's work. I want you each to read over the script tonight. Auditions are tomorrow tonight before we dance. You're required to audition, by the way. Kinny, you're one of the leads."

"Cartman –" protests Bebe.

Kenny scowls, "Why me?" His voice comes out pouty, in the same tone one may use to say, 'but I don't _wanna_ go to my room!'

Bebe is still sputtering, louder now than Kenny's objection. Cartman waves her off and explains, "Bebe wanted it to be some lezzing out shit, but I'm making the leads a hetero couple to reach a broader audience."

"Cartman, that's stupid," says Kenny, because it is – it's offensive, not that Kenny's shocked by Cartman's lack of perspective in any way. He also doesn't want to be the lead. Normally he would enjoy being the lead. He genuinely enjoys the singing and acting, even if the place he performs it is less than ideal. He's not ashamed. It's just that Denver is sketch to him, and he feels like he's just asking for trouble by doing this, like a prickle raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Not that he has a choice in the matter. He's the only dude in their 'company.'

"Shut the fuck up, you poor piece of shit," Cartman says, "I do what I want. This is my goddamned club. You do what I say, or you don't get paid."

"It's offensive that you're changing a lesbian couple into a straight one, you stupid shithead," Bebe snaps.

"What the hell are you all uppity for? If we pull this off, this could be an opportunity of a lifetime. We could bring theatre to South Park again, really give ourselves name," Cartman says. He snaps his fingers – a cue – and Kevin emerges, looking miffed. He's wearing wire-rimmed glasses that are slightly askew and carrying a stack of papers. Kenny's surprised to see Stoley at this hour of the night. He comes in during the day and works the finances when the sun is out, in a miniscule office adjoined to Cartman's indulgent one.

While Kevin passes out the scripts, Kenny shoots a text to Butters to warn him not to bother coming tonight, since Kenny will be leaving early and driving a motorcycle in the snow is both stupid and not exactly possible.

Cartman repeats his earlier orders, "Read this over tonight. I expect you all to choose a scene to try tomorrow night." He claps his hands then, and dismisses them.

When Kenny trudges outside through the fluffy buildup of snow, a car pulls up next to him.

In the front seat is Butters.

He rolls down the window and says, "I know that you told me not to come 'n all, but it's all snowy and cold, so I figured maybe you might like a ride anyway."

Kenny feels full again. Full, and happy, the quiet sort of happy that he can only get when he's around this guy. He climbs into the passenger's seat and they roll through the snow at such a reasonable pace that Kenny wants to laugh. Butters is not a reckless driver. Not even close.

"How're your legs holdin' up?" asks Butters.

"They hurt," Kenny says, telling the truth without even having to think about whether or not he wants to.

"If you don't mind me touchin' 'em, I could try to help," Butters offers.

Kenny considers this for a moment. He's already had Butters' hands on him. He doesn't think that he minds, but his heart is heavy with hesitance. He's scared, which is ridiculous, he knows. Butters wouldn't hurt him. Butters wouldn't do anything without asking first to make sure it was okay. He finds himself nodding before his brain even decides that it's okay, even though he does think that yes, Butters touching him isn't so bad. Belatedly.

They pull into the parking lot and trudge through the snow, up the five flights of stairs, and into Kenny's freezing apartment.

Butters sits on Kenny's bed while Kenny sheds his pants. Kenny feels surprisingly nonchalant about discarding his pants in front of another person that he's not fucking for money. It would bother him, usually. Butters has this odd ability to make him do things out of character while feeling more himself than he ever does.

Kenny flops onto his bed, on his stomach.

Butters grimaces.

"You did change these at all, did you?" Butters asks.

Kenny gives him a look.

"You need to take better care of yourself. We don't want you gettin' your legs cut off 'cause you were too lazy to make sure you clean out the welts," Butters says, "I know it's hard to reach back there –"

"Do you know? What it's like, I mean."

Butters stares at Kenny for a few long seconds, before he stands. Kenny wonders if he's offended Butters. An apology is on the tip of his tongue, until Butters sheds his coat and snowflake scarf. He tugs his t-shirt over his head and folds it, setting in on the edge of Kenny's mattress, before turning his back.

His back is covered in scars. They looks exactly like Kenny's wounds from the belt.

"Jesus."

"I got into t-trouble a lot," Butters says.

Kenny is stumped. Speechless. Unable to come up with an appropriate response. The variety of the scars is maybe what bothers him most, or maybe it's the sheer amount of them. He wonders if all of these scars came from being beaten, or if some of them are from when Butters toured overseas. At last, Kenny says, "C'mere." Butters backs up, and Kenny draws his fingertips over the raised skin, going from Butters' shoulder blades to the small of his back, tracing in circles. A shudder runs through Butters, and Kenny wraps his arms around Butters waist. He rests his head against Butters' back and presses a wet kiss to two different scars. It's almost like Kenny is kissing them better, even though he knows it isn't possible to erase what trauma must have had to happen to make these marks. And yet, Butters remains so childlike. He has an appreciation for life that Kenny doesn't understand. Butters embraces the world like a six-year-old embraces bubbles.

Kenny wishes that he could do that, too. Instead he finds himself musing on what a dark and unforgiving place the world is. It doesn't allow for childlike nature, so how is it that Butters has kept his?

"Kenny?" Butters says, voice wavering on a thread of air.

"Yeah?"

"You make me feel real good when you treat me all nice like this," Butters says.

Kenny mumbles into Butters' back, "I can say the same about you, buddy."

They don't discuss it more than that. Kenny still kind of feels like a dick for suggesting that Butters didn't understand the kind of pain that his legs are in, so he cooperates when Butters peels the old Band-Aids off of Kenny legs and washes out the cuts, judging them healed enough not to apply new bandages. He takes off his gloves after that and massages Kenny's legs, loosening up the tenseness. Kenny's melting, again. Butters has that ability. The one to melt him like an ice cube in the sun, turning him into a puddle faster than any normal human being should be able to.

"So I checked out the music you have on your laptop," Kenny says slyly, after Butters has slid away from Kenny's legs, which feel looser and lighter and less like he might collapse into himself at any moment. Now they're lying nose to nose, under the covers. Kenny can't decide if he wants to take Butters' shirtlessness and his pantslessness further, or if he just wants to stay as they are, warm and cuddled not into each other, but close, with Esther lying comfortable at the foot of the bed. She watches them like a hawk, as though she is making certain that neither one will be hurting the other.

Butters brows lift, "Did you?"

"Yeah, it was a pretty gay selection," Kenny jokes.

"Considering I'm gay, that's not actually much of a surprise," Butters quips back, rolling his eyes for good measure.

"You also have Creedence Clearwater Revival, I noticed," Kenny adds in casually, since they're one of his favorite bands. A little old, a little redneck-y. Perfect for him.

"I didn't know you liked them," Butters says, "They're a tad redneck-y."

"Butters, do you know who you're talking to?"

"Point taken."

An idea strikes Kenny. He pulls Butters up and leads him to the tiny living room, where he set Butters' laptop on top of the television. He opens it, and on it, the iTunes window is still up the way that Kenny left it. He double clicks on the one that he wants while a bewildered Butters looks on.

_I put a spell on you, because you're mine…_it begins.

Kenny offers his hands, and Butters takes them.

They begin to sway back and forth. They're dancing – in the way that one dances at their first real dance with their first real boyfriend. Awkwardly, but sweetly.

Kenny leans forward and brushes his lips against Butters, and Butters kisses back with a surprising amount of force. They wrap their arms around each other, though Butters hesitates and has to have Kenny separate their lips to assure him that it's okay, he likes it when they do this. He's only just admitted that to himself, though, and so the words come out jumbled and shy.

They laugh when they miss and bump their faces together instead of kissing, and sway back, dancing in their vaguely-thirteen-year-old way, all the way back into the bedroom.

There, they explore each other.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to my marvelous reviewers: KirstenTheDestroyer, Reverse Psychology, Lying Honesty, KeiMaxwell, Kuutamolla, prettyoddrydonfan, sadpeople56, Mallory, Azul Blue, ThefullmetalDemon, and Chasing Rabbits.**


	10. Dirty Hands and Trousers

**Chapter Track: A Cautionary Song – The Decemberists **

"Cartman, you can't just keep _doing_ this to him. It's not ethical."

Cartman flicks the ash off of the end of his hand-rolled cigarette. He lifts his hand painted bone china teacup to his lips and takes a long, loud sip of expensive loose leaf tea that Kevin bought for him in Denver at some obscure tea shop that looked like it might have sold contraband of some kind in the back room. He rolls his eyes at Kevin and says, "Look, chink," – Kevin wishes he could have one, _one_ conversation with Cartman without a racial slur – "You don't get to call the shots around here. You still owe me thirty grand."

"Twenty-nine grand," Kevin corrects quietly, but he knows that Cartman will keep saying ten grand until his debt has wheedled down to five grand. Still, the debt is better than it was when Kevin begged Cartman to help him pay off his mother's medical bills. He was only just a junior in college when she was diagnosed with Systemic lupus erythematosus – lupus is the short name. He was up to his neck in debt from student loans (which he is still paying off and very well may be paying off until the day he dies. At least that's what it feels like). He couldn't afford the medical bills, and his father was completely unreachable, being on some sojourn in the Himalayas.

There'd been no one in South Park richer than Eric Cartman. Kevin had debated asking Cartman for help for several days, even listing out the pros and cons in Microsoft Word, printing out the document, and reading it over before he went to bed. In the end, one pro of asking Cartman for his financial aid won Kevin over: 'my mom won't die.'

"I can stop paying for her treatments, you know," Cartman says.

Like every time that Cartman threatens to stop paying for the medical bills, Kevin's heart lurches. He isn't paid well to begin with. He barely makes rent at the shitty apartment complex that he lives in, barely has enough to cover basics like food and getting his appliances fixed.

But Kevin knows about Eric, too. What once was a relationship in which Kevin groveled at Cartman's feet and paid him every cent it took short of not being able to feed himself is now a symbiosis.

Kevin is the only other person in all of South Park, in all of the world, to know that Cartman is financially _fucked. _He's kept afloat only by his charisma and good connections in the underground world of sex and drugs. And Kenny. Kenny rakes in a whole hell of a lot of money.

Which Kenny doesn't know.

"If you tell him, I will not only stop helping your dumb ass, I'll slit your bitch mom's throat myself," Cartman says this so in a tone so casual that it sends a shiver shooting down Kevin's spine. He punctuates his threat with another rude sip of tea, setting the ornate cup on its saucer with an expensive-sounding clink.

However, Kevin folds his arms and says, confident, "You wouldn't do that."

Cartman scowls at Kevin out of his piggy eyes.

In addition to knowing the dismal state of Cartman's bank accounts, Kevin thinks he may be the only person that's seen Cartman cry since the fourth grade, when he went off his fucking rocker and proceeded to 'murder' his stuffed animals using a dramatic Law and Order method. There was no crying for Cartman after that, just rage. Terrifying fucking rage, at that – to most people, anyway. Not to Kevin. Kevin's chilled by Cartman, yes. He's also happy not to _be_ Cartman.

Someplace in Cartman, Kevin figures that there's a human. He found out where almost two years ago, when he came into work at seven o'clock sharp (as he always does, Tweak Bros coffee in hand), he heard noise coming from Cartman's office. This was an odd occurrence, being that Cartman usually heads home after the last of his hookers go home (typically Kenny, around three thirty am). Kevin had thought it might have been a thief, and not exactly thinking, he'd tiptoed past the double door to his own office, set down his laptop case and his coffee, and picked up his Swingline stapler to wield as a weapon.

What Kevin found inside Cartman's office that day was much more jarring and ten times more frightening than a whole pack of thieves would have been, even if those thieves had been the whip-smart mob boss types that Cartman associates himself with.

It was only the man himself.

He was holding a picture of his mother and sobbing over a bottle of expensive scotch.

Without Liane, Cartman was completely and utterly alone.

Cartman has a thing about mothers, now. And although Kevin is fully aware of Cartman's hold over the small town of South Park (let him just say that it was _awkward as fuck_ to walk into Cartman's office to discuss the budget and find McCormick attached to the desk by his ankle – which Cartman explained with a wave of his hand and a, "Little asshole tried to run from me."), he knows that Cartman wouldn't go so far as to kill Kevin's mom. He wouldn't even indirectly, by stopping his aid on the medical bills.

"Fuck you, Kevin," Cartman says lowly, his voice a hiss, "If you tell him, I'm cutting your paycheck. I swear to fucking God I will."

"I'll think about it," Kevin says. He likes having something to hold over Cartman's stupid fat head, but the niggling feeling of guilt in his gut about this Kenny thing. Kevin's not good at this whole 'life of crime' thing that he's fucking around with right now. Keeping this a secret has got to be like fifteen different kinds of illegal. At least.

"Fuck that noise!" Cartman exclaims, slamming his fist against his desk, sending a couple papers, and rattling the surely valuable teacup, "Promise, you stupid asshole."

"Absolutely not," Kevin says on a sigh, "Why the hell would I promise something like that?"

Cartman sputters, but finally settles on shouting, thrusting his finger at the door, "Get the fuck out of here."

"You're the boss," says Kevin.

**o.o.o.o**

Kenny wakes up cold. This shouldn't be a surprise, but it is, because when he fell asleep, Butters was next to him – sans pants. When he feels along the other half of the bed, however, he finds it still warm. Maybe he can catch Butters before he gets ditched, although he's pretty fucking pissed that Butters is treating him like some floozy one night stand instead of what actually happened, which was Kenny performing the best blow job of his career. Except that this blow job wasn't a part of his career. It was fucking _fun_. Kenny's never felt any particular amazement at having people at his sexual mercy. It happens a lot. But Butters, fucking Butters, is always different. His helplessness when Kenny touches him does nothing but encourage Kenny to try even harder.

And now he's been ditched.

Kenny throws the blankets off of himself and marches out of his bedroom. Instead of finding Butters about to leave, he finds something entirely different.

Butters is wrapped up in one of Kenny's blankets on the couch, apparently enthralled by what appears to be a romance novel, judging by the salacious cover. Butters hasn't heard Kenny. He's too absorbed in the text.

Kenny, naturally, takes this as an opportunity. He pads quietly across the flattened, threadbare carpet until he's close enough to read the title. He waits a beat, and he's glad that he does, because a tiny smile forms on Butters' lips, and he lets out a quiet, happy sigh at the pages in front of him. Only then does he speak. He dryly questions, "_Summer with My Wicked Marquis_?"

Butters lets out a little yelp of surprise and jolts, sending the book flying. Kenny rescues it with a bark of laughter. He turns to a page someplace in the middle and reads dramatically, "_Thoroughly humiliated by the events of tonight's ball, Clifford retreats to his study, housing himself comfortably before the fire with a glass of brandy. He thinks of blue silk and dark hair and the loveliest bosom he has ever – _is this really a thing? Are you really reading this?"

Butters turns bright pink and tries to snatch the book back, but Kenny holds it just out of his reach. He stammers over Kenny's mirthful laughter, "I-It's a good g-goddamned book. Why are you laughin' at me?"

Kenny ignores this and continues to read from the section, skipping down a few paragraphs, "_He's drunk too much brandy. He always does. He can never seem to stop himself from imbibing drink in excess, for it's only liquor that's ever cured him of his cloying loneliness. _Well. That's not very romantic." Kenny frowns at the page as though it has wronged him, and silently reads a few more lines to himself. However, he realizes that he's gotten caught up in the book within a short thirty seconds, and nervously laughs, setting it aside and hoping that Butters didn't notice that he was actually reading it.

When Kenny quiets, he remarks, "I thought you'd left."

"Who in heaven would leave after a BJ like _that_?" Butters hums, smirking a little.

Kenny rolls his eyes and says, "Sassy bastard," even though he's relieved in this strange way that Butters didn't ditch him. It's an odd feeling that he doesn't remember ever having before, something that writhes inside him pleasantly, the way that your belly sloshes when you've had too much hot chocolate.

"C'mere," Butters says quietly, and so Kenny does. He sits on the couch across from Butters, folding his legs in. Butters eyes him and asks, "Why you gotta be so far away, huh?" he opens up the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and repeats, "C'mere."

It's an interesting invitation, to sit in the blanket with him. Kenny feels almost shy about it at first, because sharing a blanket like that seems intimate to him in a way that he has never experienced. It's something that people that are comfortable with each other do, right? You don't have to want to jump their bones or anything. Except that he does want to jump Butters' bones, which presents a problem in the equation.

"I'm not gonna bite," Butters says, when Kenny continues to stare at him, and then adds, "Unless you want me to. 'Cause I can bite real good, then."

Kenny can't help himself. He laughs. He feels like he's been laughing all morning, like he was laughing all last night, that he's been laughing for weeks since Butters arrived back in South Park. He doesn't know that he's ever laughed so much in the entirety of his twenty five years of life.

It's only after that laughter happens that he feels okay with scooting forward on his ugly couch, in between Butters' legs, and into the blanket. Butters closes it around them, enveloping both of them in his body heat. Butters kisses him, even after Kenny protests and says that he has morning breath (which he does). He finds himself melting again, almost literally. He wraps his arms around Butters' waist and they slide together until they're lying flat on the couch, Kenny on top of Butters. That's probably best. Kenny's lighter – because he's scrawnier, but Butters doesn't seem to mind that.

Their kiss deepens unexpectedly. Butters, who doesn't seem to know his own strength, crushes Kenny against him and prods through Kenny's lips with his tongue, eager as a fifteen-year-old whom has just discovered the magic of making out. The kiss is wet and warm, and sort of…graceful. Kenny feels like they're drinking each other in.

When they part for breath, Kenny ruins the moment with his lack of regard for social nicety and asks, "May I fuck you?" Because he wants to. He has wanted to. It was just that before this moment, his mind was just torn between old insecurities and new wants. It isn't, now. He feels like himself, here, in this room, with this man. It's the most comfortable he's ever been.

"You just get straight to the point, don'tcha?" Butters asks, smiling. Kenny wonders if he should be embarrassed, but he doesn't know, and so he decides not to be. He merely waits for an answer.

Butters tucks a lock of Kenny's not-very-clean hair behind his ear and mumbles, "You could use a haircut."

Kenny cocks his head and comments dryly, "Well, that doesn't answer the question." Then he pauses. He wonders if maybe Butters is afraid that he's _dirty_ or something, because of his job. He didn't even think about that before. His high mood comes crashing down at the notion, leaving him feeling stupid and cocky for believing that asking for such a thing would be permissible. Kenny supposes that he'd assumed that all-out fucking would be okay between them, since they'd already been messing around. Feeling almost panicked, he blurts, "I'm clean, I swear! I didn't – I'm sorry for asking."

"Jesus, Ken. It's not that," Butters looks horrified, "I just wanted to make sure that you're comfortable doin' that stuff outside a' workin'. Ah – don't look so sad. C'mere. Kiss me again, would ya?"

Kenny obeys, leaning forward and gingerly rubbing his lips up against Butters'. He's shaking now, out of embarrassment, maybe. Or perhaps it's vulnerability. Kenny accidentally let slip that sometimes the things that people say about him – that he's dirty, that he's disgusting, that he's less than human because of his work – sometimes those things do get underneath his skin. He's never said it out loud, and even though he didn't exactly do that just now, he knows that Butters sees the truth of it. Butters is smarter than anybody gave him credit for when they were kids. Maybe Kenny should have realized that this makes Butters dangerous, but he's past the point of no return.

"How do you like it?" asks Kenny.

Butters considers the question for a moment, in a way that suggests that he may never have been asked that question before. He wrings his hands and says, "I dunno. I guess I usually like bein' on bottom?"

When Kenny smirks a little, Butters asks, "Was that not the right answer to the question?"

Kenny chuckles and says, "There's no right or wrong answer," and he presses a little kiss to the side of Butters' jaw, which is surprisingly prickly with stubble (the stubble isn't very visible, being only a shade darker than Butters' light hair). He adds, "Some guys don't like anal, like at all. I was just making sure, dude."

"…What else are you supposed to do, then?" Butters cocks his head off to the side, looking like a curious puppy.

"You're gay, Butters. How do you not know this?" asks Kenny.

"Um. I dunno," Butters replies. His entire face is pink now.

Kenny feels a bit guilty for embarrassing him. To compensate, he pulls Butters' lips up to his, sucking in Butters' lower lip between his teeth and nipping gently. He says, "Basically, some dudes just like to lube up their thighs and fuck that way."

"Oh. Well, uh, that sounds interesting, but is it okay if we do it the way I know how this time?" Butters asks, blushing more deeply and kneading his knuckles together.

"Mm," Kenny says, "Of course. Stay here."

Kenny doesn't actually know why he owns lube and condoms at home. If he recalls correctly, it was an impulse purchase, a just-in-case sort of a thing. He's provided all he needs at work, but he held out a hope that maybe he'd meet somebody that saw past what he does for a living, somebody that wants to be with him anyway.

He found that.

Kenny sets these things on the floor beside the couch and draws himself up where he sat before, straddling Butters. He sits lower on Butters' legs so that he has access to the fly of Butters' pants, but first, he pulls off Butters' shirt.

Kenny runs his hands down his chest, tracing a single finger of the contours of Butters' collarbone before moving his hands lower. He brushes the calloused pads of his thumbs over Butters' nipples (which are kind of cute-looking, but Kenny doesn't think Butters would like it if he said that out loud, so he keeps the thought to himself). Butters is a good, average size. He's not skinny like Kenny is. He's bulkier, from a healthy amount of muscle and a little extra from his love affair with food. Kenny's run his hands down Butters' bare chest before, but it was hastily done because he wanted to skip directly to giving head.

There's a scar on Butter's side, right above his hip. It's different than his other scars, the ones on his back that were made with a well-cut leather belt. Kenny draws his fingertips over it and asks, "What's this?"

"That's my battle scar," Butters says cheerfully.

"Your what?"

"I got shot, dummy," he responds, "Lucky it didn't hit anything important."

"Jesus Christ, dude," Kenny says.

"What? I'm all better now," Butters says confusedly.

Kenny almost slips up and tells Butters that he's happy that have somebody around that knows how much it sucks to get shot. Instead, he leans down and kisses the scar, watching Butters' face the entire time. That man has the biggest fucking blue eyes that Kenny has ever seen. They match his boyish smile, he thinks. He kisses all along Butters' chest, giving teasing licks every time he finds a sweet spot (Butters isn't very good at being quiet when Kenny does something that he likes).

When Kenny unzips Butters' jeans and his hand plunges inside, he smothers Butters' high whine with a rough kiss. He takes Butters' cock in hand. It's only half-hard, maybe because they were being too soft until now. Kenny rubs along it, reveling in the feeling of making Butters go hard, and in the sounds Butters makes as it happens.

Kenny lifts his own body up so that he can dispense of Butters' jeans and underwear, tossing them onto the floor beside his unopened box of condoms and still-full bottle of lubricant. Butters looks fucking awesome all spread out like this, his doe-eyes half-lidded with arousal, his legs quivering with what Kenny hopes is anticipation, his erection flushed pink and lying back against his abdomen.

"I feel kinda slutty right now, could you take your clothes off too, please?" Butters asks.

Kenny smirks and murmurs, "So polite," before applying a kiss to Butters' lips and lifting his body up to remove his clothing – still pajamas, his sweats and a muscle shirt with holes near the neckline. The process is however shortened, because Kenny tends to go commando when he goes to bed.

Butters asks in a whisper, "Should I be keeping my hands to myself?"

"For now," Kenny says. He hasn't let Butters touch him all that much. It still bothers him, no matter how much he's enjoying doing the touching himself, exploring ever corner of Butters' body, every scar, every imperfection, every last piece. Last night he discovered that Butters has a tiny mole on the inside of his thigh. Today, it was the scar Butters has from a bullet wound. Kenny intends to find more. He intends to find each and every last little thing.

Butters does as he's been doing when they start getting hot and heavy, balling his scarred-up hands into fists at his sides, and letting Kenny set to work on making him feel fantastic.

Kenny starts with basics. He dips his head down and licks a long line up the side of Butters' cock. Butters stuffs a fist into his mouth, trying to smother a moan, but it doesn't quite cut it.

Esther barks at the noise and Kenny snaps his fingers, scolding, "Get outta here," before he ducks back down and repeats the motion, a little more each time. He takes the head into his mouth, sucking gently, humming softly. Butters gets louder. Kenny secretly hopes that he manages to piss off his neighbors.

Kenny pulls away after bobbing his head down twice. Butters complains, "Hey, now wait a minute," and whines as Kenny reaches for the lube. He picks off the plastic wrapping around the lid and pops it open, squeezing a generous dollop onto his fingers.

He winks at Butters and says, "Hold your horses, sunshine." Butters knees him in response. They both laugh.

Kenny returns to his earlier ministrations, licking lightly at the tip before taking it in its entirety into his mouth, relaxing his throat and breathing heavily through his nostrils as he circles Butters' entrance with his slippery fingers, before pushing a single digit in. He wriggles it around, trying not to smile with his mouth still on Butters' cock. Butters squirms and bucks up, hitting the back of Kenny's throat.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," Butters keens, but he doesn't really _look_ sorry, he looks more dazed and pleased. Kenny laughs a little around his dick, apparently a good move, because Butters thrusts up again, and apologizes again, while still not looking remotely apologetic.

Kenny slides a second finger inside him and massages, searching a little blindly for the place that will make Butters see stars. He knows he's found in when Butters cries out and starts fucking up into Kenny's mouth with so much as a 'gee-whiz-my-bad.' Instead he expresses loudly, "Keep fuckin' doin' that, McCormick, and we ain't gonna be here for long."

Kenny takes that as his cue and laughs as he pulls his mouth off of Butters' erection. He reaches down a second time. His fingers shake as he fiddles with the box, and he realizes quickly that his hands are too slippery to get it open – Butters does too, and snatches the box back. He pulls out a foil packet and opens it almost delicately.

"Is it alright by you if I go ahead and put this on you?" Butters asks.

Polite as always. Kenny pants, "Yes, fuck, please," and he releases a guttural groan as Butters leans forward and rolls the condom over his dick. Kenny pours more lube over himself. He briefly thinks that maybe it's too much, until he realizes there's just about no such thing as too much lube in this situation.

Kenny braces himself with one hand beside Butters' head, where he's leaning against the armrest of the sofa, and uses the other to heft Butters' legs up high and position himself. He eases in at first, taking his time and listening to cues from Butters on whether or not it's okay to push in deeper. He doesn't know how much sex Butters has had before. Clearly, he's had some experience in the area before this. Still, Kenny finds himself more inclined to be gentler.

"I ain't made of glass, Ken," Butters says, lifting his brows. There's a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, and somehow that makes him look even more attractive than he did only moments before. He adds, "You said there'd be fuckin' involved. Don't ride me like I'm a g-goddamn merry-go-round."

Kenny grins at that. He leans down and presses his lips against Butters' in a hard kiss before thrusting forward at full force. Butters cries out in surprise. There's discomfort there, but not enough that it's entirely pain.

Kenny pulls out halfway, but before he thrusts forward again, Butters asks in a tiny voice, "Can I hang onto your shoulders, please?"

This sends needle-like pinpricks of feeling straight to Kenny's chest. He disconnects his mouth from Butters' neck, leaving a nice-sized hickey behind, and breathes, "Yes. Fuck. Do that, please." Because, for some reason, the idea of Butters holding onto him is a pleasant one. It warms Kenny's gut. He feels full and tingly. And he fucking likes that feeling.

Butters' ruined hands reach up and he places one on each of Kenny's shoulders. He grips lightly. His palms are rough and uneven, not at all like the rest of Butters' skin, which is soft and smooth. Even in the places that he's hairy – his legs and the bit of scruff on his jaw – he's still smooth, the hair is fine, and almost invisible, being such a light color.

They kiss again. They're less rough with each other, and instead, they're deeper. Kenny feels as though he's consuming Butters with this kiss, plunging back inside him, thrusting their bodies together in a practiced rhythm that seems suddenly unfamiliar to him. They're so close to each other. He never does this while looking the other person in the eyes, but then, he reminds himself, Butters isn't just another fuck. He's _Butters_ for God's sake. He's important. Kenny doesn't know why he's important, but he is, and he decided not to dwell on it in thought but instead to relish the importance physically, using their bodies to manifest the weird feeling in his insides.

He pulls Butters' legs up further, pushes in deeper, and grips Butters' cock, pumping it in a familiar rhythm. It's still damp from Kenny's mouth. Kenny's trying not to sweat onto Butters as he works, because that seems somehow unattractive. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the sweat back, hoping it will stay there.

"Fuck, Kenny," Butters cries, when Kenny hits the right spot. The grip of his fingers tightens on Kenny's shoulders, and Butters draws Kenny in closer. They're pressed so close together that they're in a knot, a living, breathing knot of human flesh. Butters follows his own swear with a much less obscene, "Aw, jeez, I'm gonna come." And he does. It makes each movement sound stickier as Kenny continues to work inside him and their chests collide. Kenny reaches his own climax minutes later, his body seeming to transform into mush as the pleasure washes over him in waves, making him feel light and mindless.

They lay together, forehead to forehead for a few sweaty, panting moments, before Kenny feels less like jelly. He pulls out of Butters and knots up the condom, standing to toss it in the kitchen trashcan before returning to the couch.

Butters arranges them so that they're sitting together in the blanket again, with Butters half-sitting and Kenny's head on his chest. Butters' heart is beating so fast it sounds like it might burst from exertion. Kenny can't help but be pleased with himself.

"Well, that's one way to keep warm," chuckles Butters.

Kenny laughs along with him and hugs him tighter, pressing his ear closer to Butters' heart.

This didn't feel like just sex. Kenny wants to tell Butters that, but he thinks it'll sound stupid if he does, so instead, he kisses the skin over where Butters' heart beats and stays quiet. He feels like he could fall asleep right here, even though he just woke up and his day has only just begun. He could fall asleep on Butters and sleep for centuries, as long as they were warm like this and thick with the scent of sex.

Butters interrupts Kenny's musings and says, "You wanna go get food?"

"Mm, can't afford to go out," Kenny mumbles, voice muffled by Butters' chest.

"I'll treat you," Butters says, running his fingers through Kenny's greasy mop of hair.

"Then I'd owe you," Kenny complains back, but he also doesn't want to move out of this position for at least a million years.

"What part a' 'treat' did you miss, stupid?" Butters asks, "We can get your favorite."

"'Cause we fucked?" asks Kenny.

"Because we're friends," answers Butters.

Kenny lifts his face barely off of Butters and stares at him through sleepy eyes, "Let's get _your_ favorite. I'll feel less guilty. It's still Bennigan's, right?"

"Sure is! You remember that?" Butters looks like a combination of surprised and confused.

Kenny actually remembers several aspects of Butters. He didn't realize it until he started thinking about Butters for what feels like every waking moment of his life. He remembers that in high school, Butters stayed after school in the Home Ec classroom for hours (Kenny stayed after hours for detention, himself), that Butters liked to make cootie catchers and giggle in the back of the lunchroom with the girls when they were in middle school, but when they got older, he became more of a loner and didn't talk to anybody. He still always smiled at everybody he passed, though, which perhaps made him seem like less of a loner than he was in actuality.

Kenny decides not to say anything and kisses Butters instead.

They shower together under the freezing water when Kenny explains that he doesn't have a water heater, and Butters says that it's best to conserve water anyway. Kenny figures as long as he gets to keep Butters' clothes off for a little bit longer, he's happy. Butters dresses in his clothes from the previous night and Kenny finds a fresh set. Despite the wrinkled state of Butters' clothing, Kenny still looks rattier. He's used to it, true, but today it bothers him. He wishes he could look nice.

At Bennigan's, Kenny enjoys a full meal – which he is gets used to, and think that maybe he shouldn't be – and Butters' foot nudging him underneath the table.

At first, Kenny doesn't get it, and while he's looking over the dessert menu hopefully, he mutters to one of Butters' light kicks, "Cut that shit out." Butters kicks harder.

Then, it occurs to Kenny: Butters is playing footsie with him. Nobody's ever played _fucking footsie _with him before. When it came to Kenny's romantic life, he skipped straight from reading porn mags covertly under the covers to fucking outright. There was no space of time in which he was awkward and unsure of himself. Okay, no. There was a time that he was awkward, yes, but he'd always been confident in his abilities to woo. He never dated, he merely fucked.

_Is this a date? _He wonders, and he gives Butters foot a gentle kick back.

Maybe it is a date. Kenny finds himself wanting to know, but doesn't want to ask, because it seems childish – Nevermind that they're still kicking each other under the table.

They share a slice of apple pie. It's not quite as good as the apple pie that Butters made for Kenny on Thanksgiving, but it's still delicious, and keeps Kenny's motor running at a happy hum.

As they pass the playground on the walk back to Kenny's apartment, Butters asks abruptly, "You ever wish you could play on the swings again?"

Kenny glances at the playground equipment. It's abandoned. It's too cold to play for most kids right now, though when he was little, he and his siblings all went to play out when it was freezing. Better to be out of the house when mom and dad were hollering at each other, they'd philosophized at that young age. Kenny looked back at those days and realized some of his better deaths took place on this playground, while he and Karen and Kevin played while it was snowing. The metal equipment would be slippery. He would fall and hit his head. He'd have died playing. It wasn't a bad way to die.

"All the time," Kenny finally answers Butters.

They keep walking, but something makes Kenny stop. He says, "You wanna swing now?"

Butters glances from Kenny to the swing set that's softly swaying with the chilly breeze.

"You bet I do," Butters gives Kenny his boyish smile.

They hold an old fashioned contest: Who can swing highest, and who can jump furthest. Kenny wins the first part, but falls a few sad feet short of winning the latter.

By then, they're far gone. The feeling in Kenny's brain seems almost like being high, but then, better than being high. He's fucking _happy. _He's having fun. It's a little cold outside, and sure, it's probably not the smoothest idea to be fucking around and chasing Butters around a playground on a full stomach, but he hasn't laughed so much in all his life. His lungs are so full of laughter that he can't keep it in. He feels like if he holds in all the laughing he's doing, he'll spontaneously combust. So he laughs. And laughs. And laughs.

Butters yanks Kenny toward him by the hood of his winter coat and kisses him hard. They wrap their tongues together, kissing until they can't breathe anymore. When they break for a breath, Butters punches Kenny's arm and declares, "You're it!"

"Oh fuck," Kenny says, when Butters makes a break for the playground. He dashes after Butters and calls, "You sneaky little shit!"

Butters cackles and runs up the steps of the playground. He jogs past the slides as Kenny chases after.

When Butters hits the bridge, he hits a patch of ice.

He does down like a ton of bricks, slipping onto his back. His head dings against the side of the bridge. Kenny laughs at first, about to tell Butters that he got what he deserved. But Butters doesn't stand up.

Kenny doesn't laugh. He runs.

In retrospect, he should have known that running across the same patch of ice that made Butters slip and fall on his ass was a bad idea. But Kenny wasn't thinking, and so he did run. And he slipped, too. Except that when Kenny slips, he never just falls, he usually dies.

The ice sends him sailing into the air like he's flying. He knows he's about die. He always knows.

Kenny's head slams into a jagged edge of the metal playground equipment. His skull splits open. He knows it has. He's familiar with the feeling. Kenny begins to bleed everywhere, and he knows that he has about two seconds of consciousness left before he's dragged down to Hell. In those seconds, he sees Butters sit up.

At least he died playing.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to the amazing people that leave me lovely reviews: Reverse Psychology, KirstenTheDestroyer, Wendlekins, Azul Blue, Lying Honesty, sadpeople56, Crazy88inator, KeiMaxwell, Mallory, PunjabiKangaroo, TheAwesome15, MariePierre, prettyoddrydonfan, conversefreak3, and Sally.**

**To answer the question 'what am I writing next?': After this fic is complete, I will be taking a short break to work on my South Park Big Bang project, which is as of now a Style/Bendy piece (yes, I know I said I'd never write Style again and yes, you have caught me lying) – that won't be posted here until much later. After that, I'm not entirely sure, though I have an idea stewing in my head for a Crenny/Staig piece. **


	11. Can't Stop 'Til the Curtains Close

**Chapter Track: Heavy Heart – Ghostland Observatory**

When Kenny is returned to a fresh body in his bed, he hardly has time to register his surroundings before he realizes that somebody is banging so hard on his door that it sounds as though they might break it down if he doesn't answer. Dazed, he forces himself up and stumbles to answer it. Esther follows after him.

"Oh, thank Jesus," Butters says, holding a hand over his chest. He's wearing the same clothes that he wore earlier today.

Does he remember?

Kenny doesn't know that he wants to ask this, for fear that he'll sound crazy if he does ask. Also, he's too woozy to put much of anything together. It typically takes him a few minutes to fall back into his body properly. Getting up so rapidly has given him this weird sense of being here and looking at Butters while simultaneously seeing it from above, outside of himself.

He sways on his feet but catches himself with a hand on his wall, breathing a sigh of relief.

"You don't look so good," Butters says, frowning in concern, "Maybe you should lie down."

Kenny nods wordlessly, because if he decided to speak, it would potentially come out as a disoriented gargle and not human language of any variety. Butters guides him to sit down on the couch, trying not to manhandle Kenny but keep him from falling over at the same time.

When Kenny sits, instead of asking how Kenny is feeling, Butters inquires, "Do you always answer the door wearin' nothing but your coat, or am I just special?"

"Whoa," Kenny gives a woozy chuckle and grabs his only throw pillow, covering his private bits. He mumbles, "Give me a second. I just uh, woke up from a nap."

Butters expresses, "I was real worried about you. This is probably gonna sound silly, but I had a – um. I had a nightmare. That you died."

Kenny blinks.

Butters says, "I thought it was real when I woke up, so I, um, came over. I guess I didn't think that one through. I'm sorry for wakin' you up." He mashes his knuckles together, blushing. Kenny's not certain that anybody's reacted that passionately to a bad dream about him in their lives. Butters looks embarrassed that he's done so, though Kenny feels his chest swell just a little with appreciation.

God, he's got to stop doing this. He can't get his hopes up about people giving a damn. He knows Butters genuinely cares – it's just that Butters cares about everything. He even cares about his psycho parents. The fact that he cares about Kenny doesn't come as a surprise, because it isn't special. _Kenny_ isn't special. Butters is merely charitable to those he deems in need (which is just about everybody).

"Mm, that's okay," Kenny murmurs, tossing Butters a still-not-lucid smile.

Butters isn't the first person that's dreamed about him.

The first person that dreamed about Kenny's deaths was Wendy Testaburger. At least, Wendy was the first person that ever told him about dreaming of his death. She'd always been blunt in that way. Who knows – other kids could have dreamt of him and thought nothing of it. But Wendy wasn't like that.

Wendy is unusually intuitive, and she always has been. When Kenny came to school after a death, it always felt to him like she knew. Not that she _knew_ knew, but that something in her brain clicked, and she could sense that something about him wasn't quite right.

When they were eleven years old, at the beginning of their first year of middle school, Wendy cornered Kenny in the back of the theatre classroom and demanded, "Are you okay?" She'd looked him over with an expression that told him that she'd know if he was going to lie to her. Kenny remembers being surprised that she'd even wanted to talk to him one on one, let alone that she'd shoved him back behind the costumes for HMS Pinafore, which the older kids were putting on in a month and a half.

"Why? You wanna make me feel all better?" being the shameless flirt that he was, he'd winked at her, even though he knew that she was still dating one of his best friends and wouldn't cheat on Stan even if somebody held a gun to her head and told her to do so.

"Ugh, _no_," she'd wrinkled her nose at the idea, but, never one to stray away from her original intent, she had gone onto say, "This is gonna sound super weird, but I had a bad dream about you last night. "

"Dreams aren't real, Wendy," Kenny had said, but he'd been secretly curious – he thinks he was curious mostly due to that a pretty girl was dreaming about him.

"I'm not dumb," Wendy sighed exasperatedly, "It's just that it was a very _vivid_ dream. You got hit by a train."

Kenny had gotten smashed by a train on his way home from school the day before. He was struck dumb by her words, because he knew that she didn't really remember, but that her brain did, maybe. It was an unconscious memory that had been only partially wiped. He had cleared his throat and laughed it off, nervously saying, "Jesus, Wendy. That's fucking gruesome."

"I know," she'd answered, "but sometimes dreams can mean other things."

At the time, Kenny thought that maybe she'd known about his heavy-handed father. It's why he wore his hood up for so long, despite teachers' protests and demands that he keep it off in the classroom – it hid his bruises. He only started taking it down when he could fight back, sometime around when he turned thirteen. Then he just looked like a badass, or so he had justified.

Kenny had stared and declared, "You're fuckin' weird. I'm fine."

And that had been the end of it. Sort of. She still eyed him throughout the years like she didn't quite believe Kenny when he told people that he was perfectly okay.

So did Stan and Kyle, even before they dreamed about him, too. But then, they were his best friends. They could see through a lot of his bullshit, in the same way that Kenny could see through their bullshit, too. When Stan was hungover, no matter how much time that he spent in the morning making himself look presentable, Kenny would still know. When Kyle spent all night unable to sleep from stressing himself out, Kenny would still know. And likewise, when Kenny had spent awhile in Hell, the two of them could tell – though in that case, they couldn't tell exactly what had gone down. They assumed that Kenny had spent the night partying too hard, he guessed.

Kenny thinks that only people that were close to him got the dreams. Karen had nightmares about his deaths constantly through childhood. She still does, and she always tells him when it happens. She typically calls his cell, sounding worried, and will say, "_I had one of those bad dreams again._"

And Kenny will answer, "I'm just fine," even though sometimes he's only just been reunited with his body, and he's woozy like he is right now.

Kenny feels terrible, but he's comforted knowing about these dreams. To him, it justifies some of the death. At least, somehow, their minds remember what happened to him.

When Butters slides onto the couch next to him, staring down at his open palms, he asks, "Is it alright if I kiss you?"

Kenny makes a decision, then. He says, "Butters, you can always kiss me."

Butters leans over and touches his lips to Kenny's. The kiss is soft, but confident. When they end up naked together on the couch again, Kenny doesn't mind at all. He's having fun enjoying sex again, especially with somebody as attractive as Butters is. He'll always look younger than he is, at least in the face. Kenny sort of likes that – the big blue eyes and the lopsided, childish smile. He likes that Butters seems to always be smiling. Kenny doesn't know how he can do that, but he likes that he does.

They pull Kenny's throw blanket up over them after they've finished, too lazy to clean themselves up or do any moving whatsoever. Judging that she would be welcome in the room again, Esther leaps onto the couch and curls up on top of their feet.

"Nice doggy," Butters coos, though he can't quite reach across the sofa to pet her. He mentions, "You know, I always wanted a dog, but my dad's allergic. You think if I got a dog he'd leave me alone?"

Kenny chuckles, a brief fantasy of bringing his dog to work passing through his head. It would serve Stotch fucking right.

Butters gets a faraway look in his eyes, staring not at Kenny's cheap TV, but just beyond it. He shifts his face after a couple of seconds and buries his nose in Kenny's neck. He mumbles, "I'm sorry that you have to deal with my dad."

"We've been over this, dude. It's my job. It's not a big deal," Kenny says. At least with this evening's death, his legs are brand new again.

"He's just so awful," Butters mumbles, his heart hanging in his words.

Kenny's throat feels as though it might close up. He knows what Stotch has done to him, but not what Stotch has done to Butters – and when he thinks about it, he wonders how long the abuse had been going on. He noticed that things were off, of course. When your own family is fucked up, you can see the signs.

Kenny wonders if he ignored them. He wonders if in middle school and the one and a half years of high school that he attended, that he saw what was happening and selfishly pretended that it wasn't.

He did.

He did do that.

God, he's such a hypocrite. Kenny realizes that all the time he spent wishing for somebody to notice how shit his life was, Butters must have been wishing for the same thing.

Fuck. Maybe Kenny can't do anything right. Maybe he's fucked up everything and doesn't deserve these little moments of happiness. But Butters fucking does. He deserves not to be treated like shit. He deserves people that adore him and want him around and appreciate the care that he puts into everything.

"Shit, I didn't mean to upset you," Butters remarks. His brows crunch together and he frowns, before pressing a hesitant kiss to Kenny's cheek.

Kenny forces a smile, which makes Butters frown more. Kenny isn't good at smiling like he means it when he doesn't have anything to smile about. He clears his throat, trying to think of what would stop Butters' worrying, and settles on, "I'm not upset, dude. I, um, I'm just kind of tired."

"Oh," Butters says, but he doesn't sound as though he believes what Kenny is saying.

Kenny doesn't want Butters to know that he's important to him. It sounds selfish, perhaps. Maybe even cruel. But Kenny has learned that when you tell people what they mean to you, you admit the power that they hold over you. As long as he doesn't say it out loud, he doesn't have to fully invest in the truth of the power.

The only person that will ever know he cares is Karen. Kenny intends to keep it that way.

"Hey, uh, I've got to start getting ready for work," Kenny mumbles, sliding away from Butters.

"Do you want me to give you a ride there?"

"Um, nah. I've got to get cigarettes on the way over," Kenny says. At least that's the truth. He's getting a lottery ticket, too, not that it will make a difference. He'll just be wasting another ten bucks.

But wasting ten dollars on a couple seconds of hope isn't such a bad thing.

Kenny doesn't bother showering. Despite just having sex, his new body is still pretty pristine-smelling. He also doesn't give a shit about whether or not the fuckers that frequent Polly care how he smells. A secret corner of his mind wants Stephen Stotch to smell the sex on Kenny's skin and know that Kenny's been fucking his son. It's petty revenge, but that doesn't stop him from wanting it.

He leaves early – right after Butters leaves – and to the convenience store, where he buys a new pack of cigarettes and two lottery tickets. Both tickets turn out to be duds, not that Kenny is surprised.

He smokes three of the cigarettes before holing himself up in Tweak Bros with a scowl on his face. It's cold outside, apparently cold enough that nobody wants to leave their house for a cup of coffee. When Kenny arrives in the coffee shop, it's completely empty but for Tweek, who is sitting in a booth in the back stringing beads into a necklace.

"Hey Kenny!" he says, "Let me – uh, finish this, before I get your drink."

They stand in silence for a few minutes, Kenny still at the front door, Tweek still yards away in the back of the shop, beading silently. Kenny wonders if something good has happened – at least, something that Tweek would deem good – because Tweek is humming softly under his breath, a tuneless hum, that seems kind of…cheerful. Kenny is envious.

After Tweek makes his Americano, Kenny slides into the booth across from Tweek and his jewelry-making. He has time to spare, and Kenny wants to think of anything but his own pathetic life.

"Whatcha doing?" Kenny asks, not really curious, but he needs something to keep his mind adrift.

"My mom says I need a hobby," Tweek explains. He doesn't look at Kenny. Instead, he concentrates on his fingers, nimbly stringing even tiny seed beads, despite the Band-Aids wrapped around his fingers. He rambles on when Kenny doesn't respond and instead simply drinks his coffee, "She says I need to occupy my time in a 'constructive manner.' I don't really know what that means, so I decided to make her necklaces. Do you think that's constructive?"

Kenny isn't certain that Mrs. Tweak meant that her son should occupy his time by making her jewelry when he should be working, but he finds Tweek excitement over the project endearing. Plus, Mrs. Tweak is right – Tweek does need a hobby, one that isn't pining after Craig. If Tweek's mind is on beading, it won't be on jackasses out "finding themselves" like they're special fucking snowflakes or something.

"Sure, Tweek. This is great," Kenny says.

"You're not just saying that, are you? I _do_ understand sarcasm, asshole," Tweek eyes Kenny, but there's no more anger in his voice than usually, just his typical suspicion.

For a few minutes, they sit together in comfortable silence. Then, Kenny decides that he isn't comfortable with this quiet and asks Tweek about the beads he's using – which turns out to be a subject that Tweek is more than happy to discuss ("My mom drove me all the way down to Littleton. We went to Hobby Lobby. It scares me in there – why don't any of the employees ever smile?") It's nice, for once, to have a conversation with Tweek that wasn't about Craig or what Craig might doing or if Kenny thought that Craig would be coming home soon. He lets Tweek chat about his beading method for a solid fifteen minutes, until Kenny says that he should go.

He has to be at Polly a little earlier than usual, anyhow, for the stupid fucking auditions for Cartman's asinine play. Kenny didn't prepare last night. He was too busy giving Butters head, but he doesn't think that he'll be letting Cartman in on _that_ activity. It doesn't matter, anyway. Kenny has apparently been handed the lead without even trying. He knows what Bebe would say – maybe bitterly – "It's part of being a guy in small-time theatre. It's easy for you to get parts if you're good looking and any good at acting."

None of them have to dress in their skimpy shit for the night right away. They all gather onstage. The girls do, anyway. Cartman gestures to Kenny when he comes into the room, patting the empty chair on his left side. The chair on his right is occupied by Bebe, and beside her, Kevin Stoley sits.

Kenny isn't sure how he should feel about being offered a seat beside Cartman. It reeks of trouble to him, or, more accurately, of Kenny being in some sort of trouble.

But he doesn't have a choice.

"You smell like sex," remarks Cartman, keeping his eyes trained on the girls on stage.

"You smell like asshole," Kenny mutters back, folding his arms over his chest and slouching back into his chair.

"Um, poor boy, I believe that's what _you_ smell of," Cartman lifts a brow, "You might even say that it's a specific asshole that you reek of. Maybe, dare I say it, Butters?"

Kenny stiffens before he can feign nonchalance.

"Some of my men saw you assholes," Cartman murmurs, without so much as turning his head or narrowing his eyes, "They even snapped me a pretty little picture. 'Just friends' is what you said, I believe?" Cartman removes a picture from the front pocket of his suit jacket and passes it to Kenny, who takes it, feeling numb.

It's of them, on the playground. Butters is gripping Kenny's coat and pulling him in tight to their kiss – but Kenny didn't realize that he'd attached himself to Butters with equal fervor in the moment. Kenny is holding Butters against him by the ass. Nice. Smooth fucking move, McCormick.

"You can keep that as a nice little souvenir," Cartman says.

"I can explain," Kenny immediately says, shoving the picture into the inside pocket of his coat.

"You'd _better_ fucking explain, Kinny. I've got all night to hear about this," Cartman's whisper is deadly. That's how Kenny knows that he's _really_ angry, that he isn't just blowing smoke to scare him shitless and frighten him into working brainlessly. Cartman's scare tactics had usually worked on Kenny over the years, mainly because Kenny didn't give a damn about what he was doing or himself, and just wanted to earn his life back. Cartman should be yelling about this. He should be shoving Kenny back into his office and screaming about it. He should be beating the shit out of him. But he's doing none of those things. He is merely whispering.

"Okay, I slept with Butters," Kenny starts, trying to rack his brain for a way to make his tryst with Butters sound like a legitimate pastime. He coughs into his hands, thoughts flying rapidly, and goes on, "Uh, it was only twice." That's true. "It just sort of happened." That's less true. "Look, can't I just enjoy a little bit of my life, Cartman? I'm not doing any harm."

"In case you've conveniently forgotten, dickweed, you are his father's whore," Cartman says, "Or does Butters not know that?"

"He does," Kenny snaps back, because the idea of keeping things from Butters makes him a little sick to his stomach.

"I fucking forbid this from continuing, poor boy. You are going to end it," Cartman says.

"No, I fucking won't," Kenny says.

"Not on your fucking life, you won't," Cartman murmurs back, "You owe me money, asshole. This could ruin everything for us, Kenny. This could ruin fucking everything. Unless you want to see your life fall to pieces, I suggest that you obey. If you don't, I'm giving you a pay cut."

Kenny can't afford a fucking pay cut. He barely makes rent and feeds himself as it is. He has to have money to look nice for Karen's fucking wedding, and even though she and Clyde have already offered to take care of his wedding clothing, he still feels the offer as a blow to his pride. He can't even fucking afford to look good at his baby sister's wedding. He can't do shit for her, just like he can't do shit for himself.

Kenny fucking forgot how much of a sham his entire existence is. Butters makes him forget that he's a fucking loser.

"Why are you doing this?" creaks Kenny, because he honestly doesn't see the harm in seeing Butters in private while he works here. He doesn't get why that's a big deal. Why does Cartman have to control every aspect of his life? It's conversations like these that make Kenny feel as though Cartman's ultimate goal in life is to quash the happiness out of Kenny's life. He'd accomplished that up until Butters arrival in South Park. Kenny was a hopeless wreck a mere few months ago.

But he isn't, anymore. He's got a little bit of fucking sunshine in his life, and he doesn't understand why he can't fucking keep it there.

"This is for everybody's good, Kinny. I wish that you could see that," Cartman says.

"What the hell does that mean?" Kenny can hear his voice raise and begin to quaver. It pisses him off more. Bebe and Kevin slide glances over to them, but Kenny doesn't think that the people on stage heard his outburst.

Cartman retorts, "Shut the fuck up, Kinny. There's more at stake here than you know. Dump your faggy fucking boyfriend, prick, or I'll dump him for you." Kenny knows what that means. Cartman is threatening to murder Butters. He'll do it. Kenny's seen Cartman put out a hit. It wasn't on anybody that Kenny knew too personally – it was Mercedes' ex-boyfriend. Emphasis on the _ex_, since he's now six feet under in the South Park cemetery. The difference between that hit and this new threatened hit on Butters is that Mercedes' ex-boyfriend stalked her for a month and half. When Cartman overheard Mercedes relaying her fear to Sally, he had the bastard killed. Not necessarily what Mercedes was asking for – but when it comes to "taking care" of people, Cartman gets shit done.

"Okay," Kenny agrees softly. He doesn't know if he intends to follow through with this agreement yet or not.

"Okay, what?"

"Okay. I'll stop seeing Butters," Kenny mumbles into his hands. He doesn't want to look Cartman in the eye, because he thinks that Cartman will know that Kenny isn't certain if he's telling the truth or not.

"Make it happen, poor boy. I'm not fucking around," Cartman says, though Cartman never fucks around when he threatens death.

They continue to watch the auditions in silence. Kenny isn't asked his opinion on anything, not that he thought he would be. Bebe remarks on whose work she likes even though Cartman hasn't asked for it, and though Cartman pretends to be ignoring her, Kenny thinks he might be listening – Bebe has always had an eye for compelling actors. Maybe Kenny should actually read the script.

The girls wrap up on stage just in time for them to all shuffle back to the dressing room and change into their work clothes.

Kenny hangs back for a second. He dwells for a moment on an insane hope that he could change Cartman's mind about his…thing…with Butters. Kenny doesn't want to relinquish this. Butters makes him laugh, makes him feel good, makes him feel like an actual person. Butters doesn't think any less of Kenny because of his work – such a rare occurrence that he feels the need to cling relentlessly to it.

Kevin and Cartman are arguing.

Kenny feels like he shouldn't be watching, but he's surprised that Kevin is even here in the first place. Stoley seems to be hanging around more often. To be honest, it makes Kenny uncomfortable. The guy has such a fancy fucking life, with a college degree and a nicer apartment and a better job. He doesn't have to be at Cartman's beck and call every hour of every day, unlike Kenny and the girls. He works a nice nine to five schedule like a normal-ass human being.

Cartman catches Kenny staring and gives him a glare that could freeze fire. Kenny shoots his eyes to the floor, pretending that he wasn't intending to eavesdrop, and slinks off into the hallway to change into his scanty clothes for the night.

Halfway there, he hears footsteps pounding behind him, and then, "Kenny? Kenny, wait!"

He turns his head. It's Stoley.

"Why are you talking to me?" Kenny mutters, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. People like Kevin don't communicate with people like Kenny. Even by looking at them, that much is clear. Where Kenny wears scruffy, torn up jeans and a threadbare coat he's worn since his teenage years. Kevin wears a slightly wrinkled but expensive looking striped button-down over a clean, white t-shirt. His jeans have no holes in them, and they're not too baggy like Kenny's are. He makes Kenny feel like less of a decent, worthy person just by existing. Stupid fucker.

"Because, I, uh," Kevin begins, a slight flush to his cheeks, as though the fact that he's standing in a brothel and conversing with a rentboy is embarrassing to him.

"Spit it out, Stoley," Kenny says, moving to walk away, "I need to make myself pretty, and I don't got all night."

"I have something I need to tell you," Kevin blurts out.

"A confession of love?" jests Kenny wryly, which makes Kevin's blush deepen, "Look, I don't have time for this, dude. I have money to make."

Kenny walks away before Stoley can say anything further. The girls can tell that he's agitated when he comes parading into the dressing room, trying not to slam open his locker but slamming it open anyway. One of the star stickers falls off and flutters to the ground.

As he's yanking up his leather pants, they give him trivial words of comfort, platitudes that make him feel a tiny bit better despite himself, because at least he knows he's not the only one in a shitty situation here.

"Feel better, Kenny-baby."

"You'll do great, sugar."

"Hun, don't give that asshat the time of day."

They walk out together.

There isn't much of a crowd tonight. The music seems to blare more loudly, somehow, echoing in almost empty space. Kenny sees Stephen Stotch sitting across the room with a beer in his grip. He sets Kenny's teeth on edge with the look in his eye, some combination of lust and bloodlust, neither of which Kenny wants to be the one to satisfy, but both of which he must.

He's sweaty and exhausted by the time he has to put on a mask of "ready and willing" for Butters' dad. He already feels unclean, even before they make their way upstairs and roll into bed with each other. Even before Kenny puts his hands all over Stotch's skin and Stotch takes that as an invitation to touch Kenny everywhere. He wants to vomit, but instead, he fucks Stephen Stotch good, stony-faced except for when he remembers that he has to pretend that he's enjoying himself.

He doesn't think of Butters in those moments in the second level of Polly. He doesn't want to sully his moments with Butters by bringing them into this place.

At least he didn't get belted tonight.

Kenny slips out of the bedroom when Stephen is fast asleep, a few minutes after three. He puts himself back together in the dressing room, quietly wondering if he really needs to end his assignations with Butters Stotch. Cartman sounded serious, more serious than Kenny has heard him speak in a long, long time. It makes his stomach roil and his ears buzz and something like panic floating to the surface of his brain. He doesn't let it show, even though there is nobody left in the club to watch him fall apart. He'll reserve falling apart for the privacy of his own home. Maybe he'll throw a fit and go to sleep cuddled up next to his dog. Sometimes, Esther is the only thing on the planet that can make him feel better. This might be one of those nights.

In spite of changing clothes, the scent of sex is emanating from Kenny's body, thick and heavy. Kenny hates it. He remembers not minding smelling like sex after his encounter with Butters, but this time, it makes him feel like shit. Like a whore. He doesn't feel like a person. He feels like a body.

Kenny is almost surprised when he walks out of the back doors of the club and sees Butters waiting for him in his mom's car.

Does he tell Butters to leave?

Does he cut this off here?

He doesn't want to. Fuck, he really, really doesn't want this to end. Kenny feels the happiness fading out of him with every step closer that he takes to the car. He doesn't get in the passenger side, like he usually would. He comes to the driver's side and indicates to Butters to roll the window down.

Cartman's lackeys are watching him do this. If he doesn't do it, they'll know.

He has no choice but to tell Butters that this is the end.

"What's goin' on, Ken?" asks Butters. His voice is gentle and warm, and wraps Kenny up like a blanket. He sounds worried.

Kenny opens his mouth to speak.

_We can't do this anymore._

_I can't see you._

_This needs to end._

_It's over, Butters._

"Butters," he whispers, his voice cracking on the name, "I…uh. We need to, um."

"We need to what? What's wrong, darlin'?"

Kenny feels heavy. He's unraveling. His head is spinning. He feels like he might be sick. He only ever feels this awful when he's about to die. How is it possible that your own mind can be in such a state of chaos that you think you're going to die? He's fine. He's fucking fine. His body is in pristine condition. He still feels as though he is on his deathbed, regardless. It's the strangest and most profoundly awful feeling that has ever entered his soul.

"Cartman knows about us," Kenny says.

There's a flash of something in Butters' eyes, and his lips turn down slightly, but he says, "What does that mean?"

"It means," Kenny begins.

_It means that I can't see you._

_We can't do this._

_We're done._

"It means," he whispers, "That you can't meet me here anymore. Meet me a couple blocks away, okay? Behind the liquor store?"

Butters nods seriously, "I can do that."

"You gotta pretend to pissed at me, baby," Kenny says under his breath.

Butters gives a second nod and says quietly, "I'm sorry for what I'm gonna say, okay? And I don't mean it, not one bit."

Kenny finds himself backing up a step when Butters shouts in an uncharacteristic way, "Well, fuck you, too! You're just a f-fuckin' whore!" And he drives off without ceremony.

It was a perfect performance, Kenny marvels.

He can't believe he didn't end it.

But he couldn't.

Kenny smokes a cigarette on his walk toward the liquor store, hoping that it will get rid of the smell of Stephen Stotch in his skin, or at least mask it. Butters is waiting for him in the parking lot, the engine running but the lights off. He's surprisingly good at being covert, though Kenny supposes that in the Army, they probably train you to be able to be that way.

Kenny slides into the passenger only after he's surveyed the area for any wandering eyes.

"I'm sorry about what I said back there," Butters says as soon as Kenny's buckled in.

"No, it was perfect," Kenny says, giving a wistful half-smile. Perfect enough that even though he knew Butters didn't mean his words at all, they still stung. He knows that Butters senses his hurt, maybe that he senses his whole mood of feeling lost and adrift in the middle of fucking nowhere, with no options and no way to get to a stable place.

They drive to Kenny's apartment building in silence.

Butters shuffles his feet at the door, and doesn't move from the hallway until Kenny says, "You can come in, dude."

As soon as the door is shut, all pretense falls away.

Kenny feels brittle. He feels like he is splintering into tiny pieces. He can only manage, "Please stay with me."

"I can always stay with you, Ken," Butters says, "Well, at least until my mom gets outta the loony bin. But she's supposed t'be there for awhile."

Kenny laughs, feeling helpless. He's caught up in the stupid fucking windstorm of his own life. This goddamn shitstorm that is Kenny McCormick just keeps tossing him around like a ragdoll, uncaring to how he might be injured or how he might injure others. He doesn't have any choices, it seems.

But he still disobeyed Cartman.

"You alright?" Butters asks, mashing his knuckles against each other. He looks like he wants to touch Kenny, but doesn't know if he should.

So Kenny says, "Can you – um. Fuck. Can you, like, hug me or some shit?"

That's all it takes for Butters to envelop Kenny in his capable arms. They stand together, and Kenny feels less volatile by the second. The tension drains out of him. His body starts to sag.

Butters takes this as a sign and heaves Kenny up over his shoulder. Kenny laughs when he does – he hasn't been manhandled like this in a long-ass time – and protests teasingly, "Dude, what are you doing?"

"Takin' you to bed," Butters says.

"Oh, are you?" Kenny waggles his eyebrows and chuckles.

Butters' face turns pink. He says, "Now wait just a minute. I didn't mean it like that. I just wanted to tuck you in, is all."

After he says this, he deposits Kenny on his bed. Kenny blinks up at Butters and Butters blinks back.

"Maybe I should be headin' out," Butters doesn't sound sure, though.

"Please stay," Kenny replies, "Not for like, um, sex or anything. I just want you here."

This teases a smile out of Butters. He scruffs his foot on the carpet and says, "That's real nice of you to say."

"Come here," Kenny says, because he's realized that Butters doesn't actually believe that Kenny wants him around, most like due to how much of an asshole he was being earlier this afternoon. Kenny comes to the conclusion that he doesn't have time to be dishonest with Butters anymore. He needs to carpe diem this shit and use every moment he has with this man to its advantage.

So Kenny slides out of his jeans and under the covers, beckoning for Butters to join him with a tired smile.

Butters takes off his shoes, first, neatly arranging them beside Kenny's bed. He unbuttons his light blue button-up and folds it, setting it beside his shoes. He slides underneath the covers in his boxer briefs and undershirt.

Kenny wiggles in closer and orders, "Put your arms around me." It's the first time that he's made that demand in his entire life.

Butters does as he asks.

Then the world around them disappears.

**o.o.o.o**

**Okay so I'm not usually one to make excuses for taking a long time to get a chapter out, but seriously, I'm sorry my updates have been so patchy lately – the holiday season temporarily sucked my free time into shopping and wrapping. The good news is that I have officially finished buying gifts as of today.**

**Thank you to the spectacular reviewers that encourage me every step of the way – you guys are fucking fantastic: Lying Honesty, Porn Mercenary, KirstenTheDestroyer, MariePierre, KeiMaxwell, FlyAwayMax, Mallory, TheAwesome15, Kuutamolla, Chasing Rabbits, prettyoddrydonfan, and TheFullmetalDemon.**

**Also: It looks like my next fic after my break may actually be a Creek. I have a lot of good ideas swirling around for that one, but like I've said, nothing is set in stone.**


	12. Just Medals and Scars

**Chapter Track: Hero of War – Rise Against**

Kenny's jolted awake by a crash of thunder outside.

The bed is empty, but the space next to him is still warm. Kenny wonders if Butters is off cooking or reading one of his cheesy romance novels. He stretches and yawns. It doesn't feel like time for him to be awake yet, but he can't judge what time of day it is from his window – it's storming outside. When he squints, he realizes that it's snowing.

Kenny flops his head back onto his pillow and murmurs to himself, "What the fuck is the weather doing?" which is an accurate summary of the all the weather that graces the fine state of Colorado.

Then Kenny is met with a dilemma: He is comfortable and toasty tucked into his blankets…but he really needs to take a piss.

"Ugh," Kenny expresses at his predicament. He frowns at the ceiling and decides that as much as he'd like to continue being wrapped up in bed and just fall back asleep, he does need to empty his bladder. By the time he gets back in bed, his body heat won't be _completely_ gone. Still, fuck this freezing weather that makes him so reluctant to leave the comfort of his bed.

When he disentangles himself from the blankets, he groans in complaint. His apartment, as per usual, is cold as fucking balls. Kenny rubs his arms, praying for the friction to keep him warm enough for him to survive the trip to the toilet. He hums an off-tune stretch of a James Brown song as he opens the door and reaches for the toilet lid to lift it.

Kenny is seized from behind.

"Holy sh–" Kenny swears, but a hand covers his mouth. The perpetrator holds a knife against his neck, one of the cheap ones from Kenny's own kitchen. He struggles and thrashes around, fighting against the strength of the person holding him. They're too strong. They've clamped down on him and he can barely move now. When Kenny starts to tire, he notices something.

The skin on the hands holding him is scarred up and pink.

"Butters, what the fuck are you doing?" Kenny shouts into Butters' hand. He kicks back and hits Butters in the shin, hard enough that Butters groans and drops Kenny onto the peeling bathroom floor.

"What the hell?" demands Kenny, whirling around.

Butters holds a finger to his lips and says, "I didn't realize it was you, Kenny. You gotta be quiet, darlin', or they might find us."

Initially, a spark of fear erupts in Kenny's mind. He wonders who Butters is talking about, if he means Cartman, or if he maybe means Kenny's old drug dealers – in which case, Kenny should probably run back to his bedroom and grab his gun. Fuck. But, a mere instant later, his mind calms and he notices the set look of determination on Butters' face. And what the fuck is Butters doing jumping Kenny in his own goddamn bathroom?

"_Who_ might find us, Butters?"

"I ain't supposed to tell you. You're a civilian," explains Butters, as though this were the most logical thing in the world.

"Um," Kenny manages. Outside, there's another loud clap of thunder. Butters drops Kenny's kitchen knife and grips Kenny around his middle, pulling them both into the shower, where they huddle in the corner.

"What's going on?" Kenny gasps, trying to shake Butters off of him. This isn't like him. Butters doesn't touch Kenny without his permission, and he certainly doesn't hold a knife to his throat and then drag him into the shower.

"Stay down, Ken!" Butters whispers harshly, "They got bombs. You gotta listen to me if you wanna keep alive."

The epiphany crashes over Kenny in waves. He wriggles out of Butters' iron grip and turns around. He holds Butters face in both hands and strokes with his thumbs, trying to ease the tension out of his expression. Calmly, Kenny murmurs, "It's thunder, baby, not bombs."

Butters stares at Kenny as though he's claimed that the sky is actually purple and dogs can talk. Under this scrutiny, Kenny feels like he's about to he declared an imposter. He keeps stroking Butters cheeks, maintaining a gentle rhythm, and leans in to press a ginger kiss to the corner of his lips. He repeats, "It's storming like hell outside, and it's just thunder. I promise."

Butters shakes his head, his blue eyes darting to the bathroom door, which is still ajar, as though somebody is going to burst in at any moment with contraband weaponry and blow their brains out. Kenny doesn't think he's ever seen somebody look that scared in their life, minus the people he saw get on his ex-dealer's bad side back in the day. He moves one hand away from Butters' face, slowly, and runs it through Butters' hair, combing in soft strokes.

Kenny doesn't know how long they sit there. He feels like shit. He needs to fucking pee or he's going to explode, to begin with. It's also colder than tits in his bathroom, and he wishes that he could be contentedly snuggling back under the covers. But above physical needs, he doesn't think that he's hurt so much for another person in years and fucking years. Kenny doesn't do empathy, because empathy doesn't do shit for him.

Kenny's legs start to get sore, so he lowers himself out of his crouch and scoots back to crunch in beside Butters. After a moment's consideration, he wraps his arm around Butters' should and says, "You can lean on me," because Kenny doesn't know what else he's supposed to do in a situation like this. Are there things that he's supposed to say? Is there somebody that he's supposed to call? What?

After they've sat together for what feels like eternity, Butters' breathing slows to a normal pace. His muscles untense just slightly, enough that he melts over into Kenny's grip. He mumbles, "I'm s-sorry, K-Ken."

His voice is so minute and his stuttering so prominent that Kenny takes a long second to register his words. Kenny replies, "Dude, it's fine. You've got nothing to be sorry for." He almost tells Butters that he's safe here, with Kenny, but decides against it. Kenny doesn't know how safe he is for _anybody_, let alone world's nicest man, whom Kenny selfishly wants all to himself and is afraid he might be taking advantage of.

"You wanna go back to bed?" Kenny asks.

Butters nods noiselessly into the crook of Kenny's neck. They still don't get up for several minutes, and when they do, Butters is shaking. Kenny doesn't think that he's ever seen somebody look so humiliated in his life, and this includes Pete Melman, the kid who shit his pants in fourth grade social studies.

"W-Wait, what're you d-doing?" Butters stammers, when Kenny hangs back so he can _finally_ pee.

"Gotta take a piss. You can go on without me," Kenny says.

"I-I'd rather stay with you, thanks," Butters says.

Kenny lifts a brow.

"I'll c-cover my eyes," Butters tells him, and he does so.

When Kenny's relieved himself and tucked Kenny Jr. safely back into his underwear, he escorts a trembling Butters back to his rickety bed. Lightning flashes and illuminates the room with bright white light. Butters gropes for Kenny's hand, and, once he's found it, locks his fingers in a steel grasp. Kenny wonders if lightning reminds Butters of war, too.

They get under the covers and huddle close, facing each other like children at a sleepover, pretending that they're asleep when their parents come and check on them. Except, Butters' parents would have simply left the bedroom door open, and Kenny's parents wouldn't even have cared that there were extra children in the house.

Kenny leans forward and presses a reassuring (or what he hopes is reassuring) kiss to Butters' lips. He whispers, "You're not at war anymore."

Butters stutters, "I k-know t-that. I sn-snapped outta it."

Kenny frowns. He guesses Butters is in some kind of aftershock, though the storm outside isn't helping at fucking all. It's snow, so it's silent – but the thunder claps louder than ever, echoing throughout the sky.

Butters whimpers.

"Are you crying?" Kenny asks.

"N-No," blubbers Butters, wiping his eyes with the back of one of his hands.

"You're crying," states Kenny, now confused, "Why are you crying?"

"N-None of your f-fuckin' business," Butters sniffles. His stammer is at the worst that Kenny has ever heard it, at least in recent memory. There were days, back in high school, when it would get as bad as it is now, but Kenny had thought up until tonight that those days were over. Sure, the stutter came out a little from time to time, but in these couple months that they've learned each other again, the speed impediment hasn't reared its head with any frequency.

Kenny combs his fingers through Butters hair again, hoping that what he's doing is soothing, and says, "That's okay. You don't have to tell me."

"N-Nevermind! I wanna tell you," Butters says. There's more lightning, and he dives forward underneath the blankets, wrapping both arms and legs around Kenny.

With their chests pressed together, Kenny feels Butters' heart beating wildly, thumping so hard that it's as if he's just finished running a marathon – and his panting breaths match. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated.

Butters' behavior is rubbing off on Kenny. He feels ill at ease, his stomach turning more at every shallow breath that Butters sucks in. He loops his arms around Butters and rakes through his mind for what he's supposed to do in this situation. Kenny can't fucking take care of other people. He can barely take care of himself. Still, he pats Butters' back, praying that maybe that will help, even if it's just the smallest bit. He pushes his lips clumsily against the clammy skin of Butters' forehead.

Shit, Kenny is so useless. He doesn't know how to handle people that are upset. He did, once upon a time. Before everything in his life turned to shit, he was the go-to guy for comfort and advice. Now he's just a fucking waste of space that doesn't have a modicum of an idea of how to make people feel better. All he can do is awkwardly pat their backs and kiss their foreheads, evidently.

"You g-gotta promise n-not t-to laugh, Ken," Butters says.

"I swear I won't laugh," Kenny softly replies. He means it. He doesn't know what the fuck put Butters in this state, but Kenny does not that it's not something that should be taken lightly. If Butters can walk through the hallways of a high school with a smile forever plastered to his face at the same time that all those scars were being printed into his back, nothing fucking simple could reduce him to this quivering, sweating mess of a person.

"C-Cross your heart?" demands Butters, still sniffling, and looking pained.

Nobody has made Kenny do something like 'cross his heart' when he's swearing to something since he was maybe eleven, but he knows that Butters has always been the type to invest in platitudes like that. So, Kenny lifts one of his arms away from Butters' solid body and puts it to his own chest. He crosses and mumbles, "Cross my heart and hope to die." For good measure, he holds up his pinkie and says, "I pinkie swear it, too."

The pinkie swear, at least, seems to soothe Butters. He nods and lifts his own pinkie, though when they hook them together, Kenny curls his pinkie a little harder – Butters' pinkie hardly folds at all with his hands being as ruined as they are. Kenny wonders if, when Butters was being held prisoner, they started with the pinkie. It is the smallest. Breaking a man's pinkies is a warning.

After swearing, Butters seems marginally calmer. He's trembling, still, and he's still wrapped around Kenny and hanging onto him for dear life, but he isn't crying like he was. Butters tucks his head along Kenny's neck, hiding his face from view.

That's where he starts to speak.

"I hate storms."

He says it without a single stutter, and somehow, that chills Kenny quicker to the bone that it would have if Butters was stammering so hard that he couldn't even get it out.

Kenny nearly lets out a _Why's that, baby? _but instead wills himself silent, moving his hand up and down Butters' back in a circular pattern.

"When I was real little, I was scared as shit of 'em. They made me feel like I was gonna die, and I'd holler and scream every time it was thundering outside," Butters goes on, whispering still into Kenny's neck and not meeting his eyes – he clutches Kenny closer when Kenny tries to back away a little to look at Butters' face. He continues, rasping, "My dad did not like that. No sir, he did not. He told me that wasn't b-being man enough. He locked me in my room when I was five and there was lightning. I always thought that there was gonna be a hurricane. I know it's silly, bein' that we live in Colorado, but I was just little."

Butters' voice cracks on _just little._

Though Kenny can't hear that Butters is crying again, he can feel dampness on his neck, and he knows.

"I was so terrified that I wet the bed," Butters says, "I dunno if you f-fellas remember it, but you came over for my birthday a couple weeks later to spend the night, and my dad t-told you all that I was scared of rain and that I peed my sheets. I was fuckin' five years old, for God's sake. I was so embarrassed. I couldn't stop, though. Every time the weather was bad, I'd get even more scared than I was the last time."

Kenny feels something inside him splinter. He cradles Butters in closer, no longer rubbing his back, but rocking him from side to side. He judges it best to continue not speaking, to just be quiet, and let Butters talk. If Butters wants to stop talking, then they will. They'll just go on to sleep.

Butters takes in a shuddering inhale and pushes his face closer into Kenny's neck and the pillow. Kenny care barely hear the words as he speaks. They're muffled and garbled, and he knows that Butters intends it to be that way.

"When I started to get older, my dad got worse and worse when I wet the bed. He started grounding me, and when that didn't work, he'd take his hand to my bottom, and when that didn't work, he started using the belt. It was fucking mean, but it hurt so much that got myself to stop. And a'course, bleeding on the bed was a lot worse than wetting it. I never stopped bein' scared of storms, Ken."

"It's okay to be afraid," Kenny finally replies. His voice sounds foreign, probably from him shutting up for so long. It sounds unused. He clears his throat but doesn't go on, because he doesn't know what else to say. Kenny's parents were terrible, but at least they didn't give a shit. Seems to Kenny that, if your parents give too much of a shit, you're worse off than you ever would be with jack-off ne'er-do-wells like the idiots that produced him. At least Kenny only got hit when Stuart was drunk, and at least when he was big enough to fight back, he did.

"Sometimes," Butters begins, "It would still happen. When I was older. That's why I tried not to make friends. I didn't want them to spend the night and find out that I wet the bed. I knew I'd just get made fun of. It'd just be worse. W-Who wants to be f-friends with a fourteen-year-old that still pees his fuckin' pajamas?"

Kenny wishes he had known, but he was definitely a jerk-off at fourteen and would have teased Butters relentlessly. This revelation makes Kenny ache all over and generally feel like an asshole. Thank God nobody found out about this.

"I found out that as long as I didn't holler when it got stormy, my dad wouldn't hurt me. I'd clean my sheets while he was at work and my mom pretended that she didn't know nothin'," Butters says, "It didn't stop 'til I moved outta my parents' house. And now I'm back here, and I hate it. You're the only reason that this whole stupid town isn't – isn't a steaming pile a' shit."

Kenny finds his heart torn in several different directions. Why does Butters trust him this much? Kenny would never tell anybody what he's spoken of tonight, or what he's seen, but Kenny's general a fuck-up and you don't go around telling fuck-ups that you wet the bed until you graduated high school.

When Kenny at last replies, it's a question.

"Do you need me to say anything?"

Butters shakes his head where it's tucked into Kenny's neck, still. But, after a moment, he lifts away. He squints at Kenny. Kenny stares back, and places his forehead against Butters' pressing their damp lips together.

"You don't think I'm a freak or something?" Butters asks. His brows are drawn together in actual befuddlement.

"I don't think that at all, baby," Kenny murmurs.

"After I came back from Iraq, I started having, uh, flashbacks, and panic attacks, sometimes, when the weather got nasty," Butters says, "I was seein' a lady down in Denver to try and help me with it. Guess I'm not getting much better."

"I think getting better takes a long time," Kenny says. What defines _better_, anyhow? Is he better? Sure, fuck, he doesn't take drugs anymore, but some days, he sits on his couch and does absolutely nothing but wonder what it would be like to shoot up again. Those thoughts tend to be reserved for his bad days, but sometimes, the inclination to stick a needle in his arm strikes him out of nowhere, like the lightning just outside his window is striking now. A flash. An instant. A moment of blindness, and then he'll return to himself, wondering why the fuck he was thinking of drugs again.

Kenny doesn't know if he's in a position to offer advice, because he doesn't know if he's healed. He doesn't _feel_ healed. He never has, even when Cartman made lofty claims of being the one that pulled Kenny out of his rut, declaring, "I cured you, poor boy." Kenny never felt cured.

Maybe he can offer comfort, though. He doesn't think that he's good at comforting people, but Butters doesn't seem to mind his skill level. Or, rather, lack thereof.

"Ken?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just did," Kenny teases.

Butters knees him lightly under the sheets and says, "I'm serious."

Kenny kisses Butters' cheek and answers, "You can ask me anything."

"Is it – would it – I," Butters can't quite seem to form the words. Kenny pecks a kiss on Butters' lips. Somehow, this action sparks Butters back into speaking. He asks timidly, "I need to – I need to cry. Is it alright if I cry?" Kenny and Butters both know that Butters has already been crying, but that kind of crying was the silent type, with just sniffles and rattling breaths. Butters is asking for the opportunity to cry like his dad never let him during a storm. Hollering and sobbing crying.

"You never need to ask me again, okay?" Kenny says, "You ever need to cry, I'm here." Nobody ever let Kenny do that, after all. No, he was the one that needed to be strong. He needed to be okay for Karen, for his mom, for Stan and Kyle – there was no option to sit in somebody's arms and cry. Nobody would have fucking let him. If Kenny can give that to one person, he fucking will.

Butters crumbles in his arms after that, shaking and weeping in the least graceful, least Hollywood movie, least attractive way possible. His nose runs and his whole face is red.

Kenny holds him close and kisses his head. He doesn't whisper to Butters that it will be okay, because Kenny doesn't know if it'll be okay. So far, neither of them have shown signs of being any less fucked up than they started out as, so who's to stay that things will turn out in the end? He can't fucking know.

Kenny wonders if there's something that he _should _say, but never does speak.

Esther bounds into the room at the cacophony and leaps onto the bed. She sniffs at Butters' face and takes a step back like she doesn't understand tears, before finally settling at the foot of the bed. She keeps her single eye trained on Kenny, as if to say, _I like him. _

Butters will never forget storms. He'll never forget Iraq. Kenny will never forget dying. He'll never forget the drugs.

But if they're together, at least they'll have somebody to remember with.

**o.o.o.o**

**I know that this chapter is short, but it really felt best to leave it here. This is a big turning point in the story. We're getting really close to the shit hitting the proverbial fan. **

**Thank you to the most beautiful reviewers that an author could ask for: MariePierre, Crazy88inator, Lying Honesty, KirstenTheDestroyer, KeiMaxwell, Kuutamolla, FlyAwayMax, Chasing Rabbits, Jenny2727, TheAwesome15, Porn Mercenary, and Reverse Psychology.**

**A special thank you to FlyAwayMax for drawing me beautiful art. C:**

**Serious chapter is serious.**


	13. Distant Sirens Ring

**Chapter Track: Ambulances – Ladytron **

"I look stupid."

"You look handsome."

"I feel smothered."

"It's my wedding. Your feelings don't matter."

Kenny turns around sharply to glower at his sister. He knows he's being a child, but he hates shopping like this. His one day off in what feels like a century, and he's forced into being brought to downtown Denver to get fitted for the tux he's supposed to wear at Karen's wedding. Not only that, but she threatened bodily harm onto him if he didn't come with her into some fancy-ass hair place and paid like a bajillion dollars for Kenny to get a unnecessarily upmarket haircut. He knows he at least needed a trim, but ten bucks at Super Cuts would have done just as well as being herded into some snobby joint called The Parlour (complete with the 'u').

To be fair, he _does_ look classy. Looking at this Kenny McCormick, you'd never know that he fucks folks for money and is involved in the athletics of pole dancing, living in an apartment with no heat and a one-eyed dog as his only roommate. He had his hair thoroughly scrubbed and at least two inches hacked off it. It's styled into a ridiculous fauxhawk at the moment, because Karen wanted to see him with it and Kenny didn't have the heart to argue. He'll never take care of it on his own – he'll let it hang in his face as usual.

Clyde wisely allowed Karen free reign of the wedding decisions, including the colors. Predictably, the color scheme is made up of Karen's favorite colors – celery green and baby pink.

Which is why Kenny is wearing a bright green waistcoat and pink bow tie.

"I look stupid," he repeats.

"Whine, whine, whine," Karen says back, "All the other guys are going to be wearing the same thing. You just get bigger roses to put in your coat pocket."

"I can't believe you're getting married," mutters Kenny.

"Neither can I," Karen admits. She straightens his pink bowtie and takes a step back, admiring her handiwork. With a soft, happy sigh, she launches forward and hugs him, wrapping her arms around his neck and nearly knocking them both to the floor in the process.

Kenny takes the hug with an _oof_, stumbles, but hugs her back. He asks, "What's this for?"

"I'm just really happy," answers Karen.

Kenny relaxes a little and smiles into her hair, which smells clean and feminine. Unlike him, she takes good care of herself. How is it that his little sister has her shit more together than he ever has?

He mumbles against her headband, "I'm glad." He is. He's nervous as fuck, of course, because Karen's his baby sister and she's getting married to _Clyde_ of all people. At least she's not marrying Kyle I-had-a-breakdown-in-law-school-and-became-a-yoga-master Broflovski. Or Kevin Stoley – but then, Kenny doesn't think that either of them could be attracted to somebody with the same name as their brother, simply on principle.

"I love you," she says into his chest.

"Love you too," Kenny says.

Kenny leaves the formal wear boutique before Karen pays so that he doesn't have to hear how much she's spent on clothing him for the wedding. He smokes a cigarette while he's outside, and pokes at a bit of hardened chewing gum on the sidewalk with the toe of his converse. This whole to-do makes him uncomfortable. Not the wedding. Well, maybe that, too, but he's mostly discomfited because Karen is spending buckets of money on him. He hates that. He knows that her job pays her generously, but he can't erase his utilitarian nature, something he's had built into his system since childhood.

Kenny wonders if Karen has any moments in which she's doing something perfectly normal – her laundry, or eating a bowl of cereal, or going out with a friend – and she pauses and wonders if she'll have enough money for food or maintenance. Not for lack of money, but because she grew up poor and budgeting is ingrained in her. Kenny's still poor, and he still has these constant moments of fear that he's spending too much, even if he's only just gotten paid.

"So," Karen says as she exits the boutique, making Kenny jump, "Are you going to be bringing a date?" She's joking, of course. She knows that Kenny doesn't date, but teases him relentlessly. He thinks that maybe she wants another lady around to be friends with, but unfortunately for her, Kenny very much likes a man.

"Maybe," Kenny says pensively, putting out his cigarette and replacing it in the box.

"Wait, what?" Karen eyes him, "Have you met somebody? Holy shit! Details, now. I'll buy you food."

_You really shouldn't be telling anybody about Butters_, Kenny thinks. He knows that. These are dangerous waters to tread.

"Deal," Kenny says despite himself, because he's hungry and he's wanted to let somebody in on his relationship-thing, anyway. Karen doesn't live in South Park, so she couldn't possibly let it slip to somebody that would care. And he – well, he – it just feels like something that he wants his sister to know about.

Karen takes Kenny to Johnny Rocket's and lets him dig into his strawberry milkshake, giant burger and chili fries before she speaks. She picks her way around a BLT, and he can tell that she's anxious to know what the fuck he was alluding to earlier. She is, in typical form, trying to be polite.

"It's Butters."

Karen sputters out a sparse laugh. When Kenny doesn't join in, she quiets down and stares. She half-shouts, "Butters _Stotch_?"

"Do you know another Butters?" asks Kenny, "Don't be so loud."

"Why? Are you embarrassed by him?"

"What? No!" Kenny snaps, "I feel like I'm being watched. Nobody can know, okay? Not Clyde, not anybody."

"If you take him to my wedding, people will know," Karen says pointedly, "How did this happen? I had no idea. I mean, really? Butters? Why do you think you're being watched? I don't understand –"

"Look, it's complicated," Kenny says, holding up his hands in defense. He looks down at his chili fries, poking at them sadly, "Long story short, Cartman found out about me and Butters having a thing together, and he outright forbade it."

"You can't keep letting him control your life, Kenny," Karen exasperatedly says. She looks so desperate for Kenny to listen to her, to come live in Denver with her, like she's always insisted. But Kenny doesn't want to put her in danger – she has no idea what Cartman has become capable of her absence from South Park. She still doesn't realize the hold he has over the entire fucking county, with fingers that reach out and beyond the mountains and into the city. Inevitably, from there, he accesses other cities. Kenny doesn't want Cartman to know where Karen lives. He doesn't want him be able to hold Karen's life over his head to force him into having sex with men for money.

On the night that Karen tried to get Kenny out of South Park, they broke her wrist.

He doesn't know how she can't understand the inherent danger here.

"I owe him a lot of fucking money, Karen," hisses Kenny. He takes a petulant sip of his milkshake and wrings his hands, "I can't change that part of my life, okay? But Butters – he's not a part of that. He's – well, I'm keeping him separate from that stuff."

"Does he know?" asks Karen, "You know, about your, uh, job?"

"Yeah," Kenny says.

"And he's okay with that?"

"Aren't you?" Kenny asks, his lips turning down.

"Not…really, Kenny," Karen says, brows sweeping together, "You don't like it there. You're unhappy."

"I don't hate all of it," Kenny insists weakly. He doesn't. He likes when they put on tacky plays and musicals, even when they're performing mostly naked. He likes the singing part. Sometimes he even enjoys losing himself in a dance, even if it's in front of a bunch of dirty old men.

It's just…everything else.

Karen reaches across the metallic tabletop and grips his hand. She remarks, "You've seemed a little better, lately. Is it because of him?" Because of 'him.' Because of Butters.

"I think so," Kenny mumbles. There's no use lying to his baby sister. She can see right through him no matter how hard he tries to fib to her.

"Then I'm happy. If you're considering bringing him to the wedding, then this must be something big," Karen speculates.

Kenny runs his free hand through his freshly cut hair and chuckles awkwardly, "I dunno, dude. He's just – he doesn't judge me, you know? He made me Thanksgiving dinner and pretended not to notice when I took his romance novel."

"You took his romance novel?" Karen cocks a well-plucked brow and snorts.

"Shut up," Kenny shoots back.

"Wait, he made you Thanksgiving dinner?"

Kenny feels himself flush and looks down at his hands. He says, "Yeah."

"Holy hell."

"I know."

"And you really like him?" Karen asks, using a tone that suggests that she doesn't believe him.

"Shit, I dunno. I think I do. It was an accident, by the way. I told him to fuck off at first," Kenny defends. It's just that it's nice to have somebody to come home to after work. Butters' mom won't be getting out of the hospital until after Christmas, and thusly, Butters has made himself comfortable in Kenny's crappy apartment. His face wash has even found a permanent home in Kenny's bathroom. Some of his clothes are in Kenny's hamper.

"I can't believe that he pursued you," Karen says.

"What's so hard to believe? Men find me very attractive, I'll have you know," Kenny jokes, sweeping a hand over his ragtag appearance. He probably looks strange to outsiders, with his expensive haircut and classy-looking sister, while he dons ripped-up thrift store jeans and another one of his donation bin t-shirts.

Karen rolls her eyes, "I mean that he's always been pretty shy. Did that change? And does he still look twelve?"

"He's a bit pushier, yeah. And I wouldn't boink somebody that looks twelve, shithead," Kenny says.

"Don't call me a shithead, you asshole," Karen says back.

They both laugh.

They part ways after that – Kenny's due at the theatre down here for the first scoping out of where they'll perform Bebe's play. Kenny finally read the script. He has to admit, though some of the lines are a touch melodramatic, she's not bad. He wonders why she never talked to him about it. But then, Kenny's never talked to her about his love of music. They're not friends, he reminds himself. He and Bebe are still mere allies.

When he arrives at the theatre, a few of the girls are already there. Sally – who will be playing the lead opposite his – is on the musty stage, pacing back and forth with a dog-eared copy of the script clutched in her hand.

"Hey babe," Mercedes waves enthusiastically from where she's sitting in one of the front seats.

Kenny likes theatres. They're deathtraps, to be sure. He's died in theatres at least a few times, more than once when he worked as a technician for his school plays in high school. He'd always wanted to act, but the other folks that auditioned seemed much better than he was – there was that Bridon fucker, and Wendy was always good at everything she tried. He'd never been sure that he could measure up.

The theatre teacher caught him singing, once. He'd been up in the lighting booth making some adjustments and belting out some Creedence. It was the only music that his family could ever agree to listening to together. Nobody wanted to hear Kevin's Insane Clown Posse CDs, or Kenny's The Barber of Seville CD, or Karen's Britney Spears album. She'd insisted that he audition for the next semester's musical.

He dropped out before it could happen.

He wonders what it would have been like if he hadn't dropped out, but Kenny realizes that there's no use for 'what ifs' in his life. What's done is done, and he should focus on his goddamned adult life – not the past. It's over. It's been over. He has responsibilities. He has debt to pay off. He has to go to his little sister's wedding. There are a million accountabilities he has under his belt, and none of them leave room for thinking, _maybe I could have been the lead in a musical in high school. _Because real life – real life doesn't fucking care what you did or didn't do in high school. You could be the smartest shit that ever was and breeze through those years, and still end up on the street.

Kenny walks through the aisles of red upholstered chairs. This place is small, and pretty tacky. He has no idea why Cartman wanted to work here. He's never taken an offer to perform at a venue other than Polly itself, though there have been a solid few opportunities over the years. Kenny had always thought that it would be fun, and he thinks that maybe this will be.

He turns his head and sees that Mercedes is trailing behind him, with a smile on her face. Her blond hair is piled on top of her head in a sloppy bun, and she looks smug.

"You're _enjoying_ yourself, aren't you?" she accuses, one drawn-on eyebrow cocked up.

"Shut up."

"You're good at it, you know," she says, looking less self-satisfied and more sincere.

Kenny bristles at the compliment. He laughs it off and says, scratching the back of his neck, "Well, we have to be, don't we?"

"No. I'm terrible," Mercedes admits, "I _wish_ I could act, but I'm totally hopeless."

Kenny struggles to change the subject. He doesn't like being complimented. It always leaves him at a loss for what to say, like a terrible tale has just been relayed to him and the only though that he can manage to scrap up in his mind is, _Jesus Christ. _He freezes up and feels stupid, and doesn't like that attention is being paid to him.

Fortunately, Cartman enters the theatre at exactly that moment, loudly announcing his presence by shouting, "Looks like all of you are fucking around instead of doing real work. Why do I expect a bunch of sluts to do actual work?"

This is probably unfair to Sally, who was indeed working on her lines on the stage. But also, Cartman is being his typical self and treating everybody that isn't him as subhuman.

To his chagrin, Kenny is unneeded throughout most of the afternoon – they spend the hours blocking the first scene and rehearsing with their scripts. His character doesn't even come in until the end of the first act, and so he splays himself out a few rows behind Cartman, legs propped up on the seat in front of him.

Halfway through blocking the first scene, Bebe bustles into the theatre, looking frazzled. She spots Kenny where he's spread himself out on at least three chairs, and comes to sit beside him.

"You're late," Kenny mentions absently.

"You have a fruity haircut," Bebe responds.

Kenny lifts a brow.

"I thought we were stating the obvious," she tartly says, "my bad. How much did I miss?"

"Nothing important," Kenny answers, "Cartman is a dick as usual."

"Ey! Quiet back there," Cartman snaps, glowering at Bebe and Kenny. Bebe flips him off. Cartman turns red, but returns to shouting directions to the folks on the stage.

"I read the script," mentions Kenny.

"You hadn't already?" Bebe doesn't seem surprised, but she does purse her lips before adjusting the extravagant hat on her head. It's some sort of feathered bowler hat, something that looks like it came straight off of a Harry Potter set. Kenny wonders if Bebe is allowing herself eccentricities now that she's an "artist" or whatever you are when you've written a play.

"It kind of reminds me of that one Disney movie. You know, the one with the ugly dude," comments Kenny.

"Hunchback of Notre Dame? You realize that it's based off of a book, right?"

"Us McCormicks ain't fancy book folk," Kenny jokes half-heartedly, because he didn't actually know that. He feels embarrassed, but pretends not to be, fiddling with the sleeve of his shirt without looking Bebe in the eye.

"But yes," Bebe says, "My play echoes a little bit of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. I'm surprised anybody caught that, but I suppose it _would_ be you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asks Kenny.

"That you're smart. It's a compliment."

Fuck, what was with everybody today? Kenny sinks lower into his chair and scowls.

"So, this was supposed to be a naked lesbian version of Notre Dame?" Kenny questions.

Bebe chuckles, "Essentially. But Cartman, as usual, ruins everything awesome."

Kenny finds himself drifting off to sleep to the sound of Cartman yelling instructions to one of the girls onstage, who apparently isn't understanding. He gets louder and louder.

Somebody whacks his shoulder.

Kenny starts out of his nap. Everybody's looking at him. His head feels cloudy.

"Get on the fucking stage, poor boy," Cartman barks from where he stands, "Jesus Christ, it's not fucking naptime, you lazy asshole."

Kenny grumbles, but doesn't bother starting an argument . He takes his script, which is already in poor shape – torn at the edges, misshapen from being folded and rolled up, and there's a stain from a beer spill on the bottom left hand corner.

"Okay, for those of us who were fucking _asleep_," Cartman begins, narrowing his eyes at Kenny, who is still too tired to care that he's being picked on in front of everybody else, "We're working on the beginning of the third scene. Get your head in the goddamn game, you poor asshole."

"Yeah, yeah," Kenny mumbles, waving Cartman off with a yawn as he flips to the appropriate page. This is the scene where Kenny meets Sally's character for the first time. He's supposed to be impressed by the extent of her beauty, and finds himself reciting his lines and thinking of Butters. He doesn't mean to, but he has a small monologue in which he relays her attractiveness to the audience, describing what she does to his body when he thinks of her – and his brain shifts straight into thoughts of Butters.

Butters blushing. Butters holding his hands in fists at his sides to be mindful of Kenny's dislike of touching. Butters leaning in and kissing him. Butters laughing. Butters sighing at his cheesy romance novel.

Butters holding a hand over his mouth while they fuck, because he's trying to be considerate of Kenny's neighbors.

Yeah.

"Now, step forward," Cartman orders, and he snaps Kenny out of his daydreams. Good thing, too, because Kenny is half-hard in his baggy jeans and about two steps away from a full-fledged Butters-induced boner. Kenny can think of plenty things that would be humiliating to have happen to him onstage, but he's fairly certain that a boner tops the list.

Before Kenny can follow Cartman's instructions, he hears a creak of metal above him. His shoulders fall, and he knows that he's about to die but a few seconds before it happens.

Kenny heaves a weary sigh and folds his arms as a stage light falls directly on top of him – definitely not the first time that he's suffered this exact death, but it's pretty quick to kill him, and if nothing else can be said of this death, at least he got out of practice.

**o.o.o.o**

Kenny returns from Hell with a slam, back into a new body. He's hazy and exhausted, and pissed off when he sees from the glowing red numbers of his alarm clock that he can only stay wrapped up in his old jacket and blankets for a few minutes more, or he'll be late for work.

His newly cut hair is stuck to his forehead by sweat. He feels like vomiting. The last thing that Kenny feels like doing is getting up from his bed, and he finds himself wondering how the fuck he found the energy as a child to hop right into his new body and dash back outside to play with his friends. He supposes now that his body has more growing to do than it did then.

Kenny allows himself a precious five minutes to huddle under his blankets, curled up with his knees to his chest, before sliding out and into a heap on the threadbare carpet. He had been pleased to find that the other side of his bed smells like Butters, like nice, clean soap and skin. He tells himself that surely, other people must smell like Butters, must buy the same soap, must have that same essential aroma – but the other half of his brain tells that part to shut up, and that the scent of Butters is something to be cherished.

Kenny tosses his coat onto the floor and searches around for his work pants, which are outside of his bedroom and in the tiny living area, draped over the arm of the couch. He tucks himself into them and says to his dog, "Sorry you've been waiting here all day for me, baby doll. I'll fill your bowl before I leave, okay?"

He rushes to make his hair into some semblance of sexy and spills a hurried cup of dog food into Esther's bowl before making a mad dash out of his building. He won't survive the night if he doesn't down some coffee and smoke a cigarette.

Kenny makes it into the dressing room with three minutes to make up his face, reeking of cigarette smoke and wiping off a coffee spill with a dirty, balled-up tissue that he found in the bottom of his coat pocket. The girls have already vacated and are already outside on the stage. He knows that Cartman's gonna be pissed, and as Kenny sweeps charcoal-colored eyeshadow over his eyelids, he brainstorms excuses for his lateness and – depending upon how everybody remembers rehearsals going – his absence earlier in the day. All he can think of is, 'I felt under the weather' and that sounds suspiciously like, 'I don't feel so good, do I have to go to school today'?

Kenny doubts that Cartman will be taking his excuses as viable.

He rushes out onto the floor just in the nick of time, but he cuts it close enough that he gets looks from the girls as he takes his place. He mutters apologies, and the night begins.

Kenny has developed somewhat of a sixth sense in relation to Stephen Stotch – he knows when the man has entered the building, when his eyes are on Kenny – it's a prickle that raises the hairs on the back of his neck and makes his mind tired, like his body is preparing to shut down. He doesn't like the feeling.

When the night winds down, and Kenny is lead upstairs by the man, Stephen holds his forearm in a death grip and drags him along. He doesn't protest, even though he wants to more than anything. He merely follows along.

When the door closes behind them, Kenny keeps his eyes trained on the floor and asks softly, "What would you like tonight?"

They fuck. It wears Kenny down faster than usual, possibly because he finds himself thinking, while he is on top of the man, how he'd like to be back in his apartment, maybe reading the romance novel Butters is pretending not to know that Kenny has nicked and is now reading. He's a slow reader, but it's a happy story, and as far as he's aware, it's not bad writing. After all, Butters reads all the fucking time and he told Kenny that it was a good book.

He wants to curl up and go to sleep.

He wants to be with his dog.

He wants to be with Butters.

He would rather be anywhere but here.

Out of fucking nowhere, Stotch flips Kenny over.

His hands are on Kenny's neck.

Kenny is confused at first. He hoarsely asks Stephen what he's doing. Stephen lets up only when Kenny starts to go limp, starts to feel the world fade. He thinks he's going to die. It wouldn't be the first time that he's died twice in one day, and Kenny does make a point of avoiding getting killed like this, in this place he hates, in this room he loathes, with this man that's the scum of the earth. Stephen Stotch hasn't killed Kenny yet, after all, and so Kenny silently figures that he's overdue for this death.

When the hands release his throat, he's surprised – but Stephen does it only to send his fist into Kenny's face.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Kenny demands, trying to scoot out from under Stephen, only to be pulled back and punched again.

"You smell like _my son._"

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Kenny's instinct kicks in and he realizes that he's gotta get out of here. He doesn't care how much trouble he'll get into with Cartman when he finds out. Kenny swings his own fist back and he snatches his leather pants from beside the bed. He hears Stotch shout for him to come back, calling him a slut, telling Kenny that he belongs to him, and him alone.

It's early in the night. There are still people here. The girls are still here, too. Kenny doesn't care. He's buck fucking naked, and way past the luxury of being humiliated. He pounds down the stairs and takes the back hallway to the dressing room.

There, he tugs his pants back up over his hips and bangs his locker open to yank on his t-shirt and his coat.

Vaguely, he hears somebody coming into the dressing room. He turns his head sharply to see if it's Stephen, but it isn't. It just Mercedes. When she sees him, she demands, "Kenny, what the hell happened to you? You gotta go see Cartman, you've gotta –"

Kenny's nose is bleeding. He only realizes when the blood splashes onto his hand.

He seizes Mercedes by the shoulders, smearing blood onto her skin. He doesn't care. He says, voice hard, "Do not tell Cartman. Do not. This is fucking important. He can't know."

"Honey, are you leaving? You can't leave! You'll get in trouble."

"I know," Kenny breathes. Before Mercedes can ask him to explain further, he shoves past her and takes the back door, pounding down the sidewalk like he's running for his life – or maybe he _is_ running for his life. He doesn't know.

Kenny makes it all the way to the liquor store, hiding in the back, between the dumpsters. He huddles into a ball, praying that nobody will come back here, that nobody will find him. He pulls his cellphone fro his coat pocket and checks the time. It's only one in the morning. Butters is probably watching television or reading. He isn't going to be here to meet Kenny for hours.

Kenny doesn't care. He dials Butters number and holds the phone up to his ear.

"_Ken_?" answers Butters.

"Hey, uh, can you pick me up? I'm behind the liquor store. I, um. God. Fuck, just please come get me," Kenny says, hearing the desperation in his own voice and hating it.

"_Sure thing, darlin'. Are you okay? Do you need me to –_"

"Just come here. Please."

Kenny hangs up, because abruptly, he realizes that Cartman's men could have followed him out here. He extracts his cigarettes from his pocket as he replaces his phone, lighting one with shaking hands. They're covered in blood from his nose, which is still bleeding, though the flow is finally beginning to subside.

_Fuck. _

He can't believe that he actually ran out of Polly. He ran away from Stephen Stotch, away from Cartman. Why the hell did he just do that? Now that the nicotine is settling into his system, he wonders what the fuck he is doing right now. Maybe he should call Butters back and tell him not to come. He should just finish this cigarette and walk back. He should apologize to Cartman and Stephen, because that's the fucking responsible thing to do. God, what if he loses Stephen Stotch as a client? Is he ever going to fucking pay off the money that he owes Cartman?

He's halfway through his cigarette and fucking relieved when Butters pulls up in his mom's car, looking confused when he can't see Kenny. He has no option now. He should just go home and get used to the idea that there's going to be hell to pay tomorrow. Kenny yanks himself out between the dumpsters and sprints to the car, prying the door open and jumping in. He sticks his cig in between his lips and buckles himself, saying, "Let's go. Please."

"Your face –"

"_Go, _Butters," Kenny says more forcefully.

Butters obeys and sets out toward Kenny's apartment. He doesn't speak, sensing perhaps that Kenny will snap if anybody talks to him. However, he does cast concern looks over at Kenny when he can sneak one in. Kenny sucks on the end of his cigarette, briefly rolling his window down to throw it out when he's finished.

Butters doesn't even speak when they've gotten out of the car, or when they're on the stairs to Kenny's fifth fucking floor apartment, which seems miles away, because Kenny wonders if he's done something terribly, horribly wrong. He wonders if the police are going to show up at his door and drag him back to Polly. He wonders what awful shit Cartman is going to do.

"You wanna tell me what's goin' on?" asks Butters, once they're safely in Kenny's apartment.

Sensing his distress, Esther bounds over to Kenny as he sits on the couch. She sets her head in his lap and he strokes her ears, too shell-shocked to form words. Butters nods his head like he understands this, and disappears into Kenny's bathroom.

Kenny hears the sound of water running, and a few moments later, Butters returns with a damp washcloth. He sits next to Kenny on the couch and orders gently, "Tip your head back." Kenny obeys, and Butters starts dabbing around his bloodied nose.

Once he's been cleaned up, Butters says, "Good news is that I don't think your nose is broken, just a little beat up. And you're gonna have one hell of a shiner pretty soon here, mister, so what in Sam Hill happened to you?"

"I don't know," Kenny answers.

Butters frowns at this. He says, "This isn't like you, Ken."

"Okay. Fuck. Fine. Your dad was about to kill me, okay? He had his – his hands around my neck, and I –" Kenny stammers out. And he what?

He didn't want to die that way.

"Ah, shit," expresses Butters, "You don't have to tell me twice about him. I know how he gets."

Silence falls over them. Butters runs a hand through Kenny's hair and remarks, "Your hair looks real nice. You get that done with your sister today?"

"Yeah," Kenny mumbles.

Butters keeps stroking his fingers through Kenny's hair, hitting a tangle every so often and making Kenny wince. He likes the sensation of it all, and somehow, begins to wilt into Butters. Their lips touch, and Butters inhales sharply.

They move to Kenny's bedroom, where they lay side by side under the covers and do nothing but kiss. Kenny tells Butters that that's all he wants to do tonight – he doesn't add that he only wants to kiss right now because Butters is the only person in the world that he enjoys kissing this much.

Urgent knocking at Kenny's door interrupts them.

Kenny breaks his lips from Butters' and says, "Stay here. It's probably just my landlord." Actually, it's probably Cartman. Kenny feels his gut stir with what he thinks is fear, because he doesn't know what's going to happen to him. It doesn't help his cause being as beaten up as he is. His hair is a wreck, his mascara and eyeliner smeared and running a little, and he's still wearing these godforsaken leather pants.

The person that Kenny opens his door to is not Cartman.

It is three men, the foremost of which is tattooed from his bald head, and Kenny knows beyond his clothing, down to his toes. He's leaning against a metal baseball bat. Behind Kenny, Esther growls.

She knows this man, too.

Kenny has been killed countless times at this man. Tortured, raped, left to die in the middle of nowhere, all alone.

This man used to deal Kenny's drugs.

**o.o.o.o**

**The shit hath hiteth the fan.**

**As always, thank you to the spectacular people that keep me encouraged: Lying Honesty, Kuutamolla, sadpeople56, Crazy88inator (It probably sounds accurate because I live in CO too!), Chasing Rabbits, Kei Maxwell, Mallory, MariePierre, KirstenTheDestroyer, prettyoddrydonfan, and Yaahoooo. I love you guys!**

**A special thank you to sadpeople56 who drew me some gorgeous Butters art. C:**


	14. I Am Not My Own

**Chapter Track: Après Moi – Regina Spektor **

Kenny's heart beats a wild pace. He takes a shaking step back into the apartment, not having the sense to close the fucking door in their faces. Esther bounds up and stands in front of him in the doorway. She barks – a warning bark, from her. She knows that he's upset. Kenny doesn't freeze like this. He hasn't been petrified with fear like this in years. Years of being safe. Years of working for Cartman and while being unhappy, having Cartman's protection. He's been safe this entire time. Yes, he's been trapped, but he's been secure.

Esther snarls and dives forward.

"No!" Kenny manages to creak out, but it's too late.

His drug dealer – Sergio, Kenny has never known his surname – lifts the metal bat in his grip and swings it at Esther. She doesn't back down. Of course she doesn't. She's a fighting dog. She will fight to the death for Kenny. He tries to pull her back, to protest, but she's stronger than he is when she's in a rage. Sergio swings the bat. It makes contact. Kenny can't see where, but there's a sickening crack that echoes throughout the apartment, and there's blood. She falls back onto the peeling linoleum floor.

Sergio and his men step forward.

He reaches forward, touching Kenny's face with a single knuckle. He flinches back from the touch, Kenny can't move the rest of his body. He's welded to the spot.

"Still a whore, I see," he observes quietly, in that voice that he used when he planned to do something absolutely terrible to Kenny, something that would probably leave him bleeding out, alone on the floor of an abandoned warehouse.

Sergio continues, "What? Got nothing to say?"

Kenny searches his mind frantically. He's never been able to come up with anything witty or biting in the presence of this man. He feels like his past self, a druggie so high that he could only manage terrified protests against what would inevitably happen to him, and cries of pain when it did.

"You get the hell away from him."

Sergio's brows raise and Kenny swivels around.

Butters is holding Kenny's gun. The only other time that Kenny has seen this expression on his face was the brief moment in the bathroom when Butters thought he was in Iraq. He doesn't think that now. He can't. But his big blue eyes are narrowed to slits, and he's pointing that piece at Sergio's head like he was born to pull a trigger.

Butters looks like a fucking _threat. _A real one. Not an ex-soldier having flashbacks and nightmares, or a kid who wet the bed, or a guy that loves nothing more than baking and romance novels – but a man that could gut you before you could even blink, before you could tell him that you surrender, that you're not his enemy.

"Don't think I don't know how to shoot this thing," he says softly, taking tiny steps forward.

Sergio does nothing. His men are backing away, toward the door. Maybe Sergio feels the same frozen fear that Kenny felt not instants ago.

Butters comes to stand in front of Kenny, holding his arm out in front of him. An urge to clutch onto that arm strikes him, but Kenny tamps it down, trying his best not to be afraid anymore. Somebody's got his back, this time around. He's not alone.

From outside his open door, he hears pounding up the stairs. He wonders if the commotion has gotten somebody's attention, but doesn't know how it possibly could. Folks that live here keep to themselves because they can't afford not to. Kenny would bet good money that people on his same floor, next door, even, have dealt with this same man. They wouldn't have called anyone, not for the sound of a barking dog or breaking bones.

The people that barge through the door carry guns themselves, but they're no cops.

They're Cartman's muscle. The guys that follow Kenny from day to day, no matter what he's doing or where he is. He barely recognizes their faces.

"Sergio, this is not the time," one of them says, "he doesn't have any control here. Hurting him won't get to the boss."

"If y'all don't get out of here, I'm gonna fuckin' shoot," Butters declares, his stutter missing in action.

"Butters," Kenny whispers, his voice coming out smaller than he meant it to.

"I got this, darlin', don't you worry," he says lowly. He cocks the gun, positioning his finger on the trigger, pointing directly at Sergio's head. He orders, "Get outta here."

Cartman's second lackey says, "Cartman will get you your money. You can't go around threatening his whores, man. They're poor as shit. He's taken everything."

"What are you talking about?" Kenny hoarsely asks. Why is Sergio back and demanding more money? It's been fucking paid, that's why Kenny's been working his skinny ass off at Polly for years. He wouldn't have been doing it, otherwise.

His dog isn't moving. No, wait, she's breathing. Esther is breathing and she'll be –

"This isn't over," Sergio declares, but he swings on his foot and sweeps from the room, his two men quick to run after him. They hear their footsteps down the stairs, and cursing. Sergio's shouting something but Kenny isn't listening. It's finally safe to touch his dog.

She looks up at him with her eye and whines.

"We've got to get her to the animal hospital," Kenny says desperately, looking up at Butters, who's looking at Cartman's lackeys. He hasn't lowered the gun.

"Isn't this the guy you're not supposed to be seeing, McCormick?" asks Lackey One, eyeing him.

Kenny says, "Yeah, and I don't give a flying fuck, because I want to see him. Go report it to your boss or something. I don't give a shit. I need to take care of my dog, you pricks. Butters, can you give us a lift?"

Kenny moves to pick Esther up off of the ground, but Butters places a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. He says, "Why don't you put on your coat? I'll carry her. And you two – scram." Where they didn't listen to Kenny, Cartman's men listen to Butters. They give the scene a speculative look before backing away.

Kenny realizes why Butters told him to put on his coat – he's still dressed in his stripper getup, boots, leather pants, and all, his makeup still smeared around his eyes. He doesn't care, really, though going topless to the animal hospital does seem stupid. He tugs his coat over his bare torso and zips it to the neck. Butters has already set the gun aside on the kitchen counter, and lifts Esther into his arms.

Kenny holds Esther in his lap while Butters drives like a madman down the road, ignoring anything that is meant to stop him. Kenny takes it as a sign that Butters cares as much about Kenny's pitbull as Kenny does, and this makes him feel a little comforted, even though his dog is whining in his lap and bleeding onto his jacket.

They rush her into the animal hospital. When asked what happened, it's easy for Kenny to tell the staff that they got mugged – his black eye and the marks around his neck support his story.

"She'll be fine, darlin'," Butters says, patting Kenny's hand as they sit in the waiting area. Kenny hates waiting areas. They're designed to be the most boring places on the planet, with candy dishes filled with stale peppermints, the television set to some silent and tragic news story, the chairs being uncomfortable. Kenny finds himself fiddling with the children's toy beside his chair, some contraption made out of loops of colorful, plastic-covered metal and wooden beads shaped like airplanes.

"Ken," Butters tries again.

"What?" Kenny snaps, instantly regretting the sharpness of his voice when Butters shrinks in his seat. He's back to being plain old Butters now, he supposes. Kenny heaves a sigh and apologizes, "I'm sorry. I'm – I'm – everything is so fucked up."

"You ever wonder if your dreams are trying to tell you something?" asks Butters, unexpectedly.

Kenny wonders if Butters is trying to distract him from the fact that doctors have taken his dog and he doesn't know how she is. He answers, "Not really, no." Kenny doesn't dream often. His sleep tends to be dreamless and heavy, which is part of what makes waking up for the day such a pain in the ass.

Butters remarks, "I keep having these nightmares."

"Your war nightmares?" Kenny asks quietly. Butters has had them more than once when in bed with Kenny, and Kenny has had to be there to wrap his arms around Butters and tell him that it'll be okay, that he's not fighting anymore, that Kenny's got him and he will _never_ let Butters go. No matter what the fuck Cartman says, he will not stop seeing him.

Butters waves him off and responds, "No, these are different. They feel just as real as my war dreams, but they can't be. They're awful fuckin' scary, though. You keep dying in them. I'm so dang relieved when I wake up and you're there, because I feel like I'm gonna have a heart attack every time I dream one up. You know you got crushed by a stage light in the last one? I about peed my pants."

Kenny feels the blood drain from his face. How is Butters having these dreams so often, and so accurately? His stomach gives a jerky twist, and he feels like he might throw up.

Butters frowns as if in thought, and suggests, "You don't look so good, darlin'. Why don't you go to my folks' house and take a proper hot shower?" He removes his keys from his pocket and presses them into Kenny's palm.

"But Esther –" starts Kenny.

"Don't you worry about a thing. I'll make sure she's home safe, Ken. You need to take care of yourself for now. It's been a rough night," Butters says. His voice is gentle, like he's talking to a scared animal. Kenny wants to be mad about this, but instead finds that he's soothed, despite himself. Dumbly, he nods, and closes his fingers over the car keys. Before he leaves, he hands over his apartment key, praying that Butters will be able to bring his dog back home.

Butters' parents' (or, Kenny supposes, merely his mom's now) house is just as he remembers it being, even though he hasn't been inside it since he was at most fifteen. There is still a cross-stitched "Home Is Where The Heart Is" above the front door. There are still hand-embroidered throw pillows on the expensive-looking but outdated sofas. The taupe carpeting is pristine. It smells like the same vanilla candles that his mom and Karen like so much.

It also looks like Butters decorated the place for Christmas, all by himself. Kenny did notice that there were light up reindeer on the front lawn, and somebody had strung colored lights around the front window, but inside, there's even more.

There's a small Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, decorated with lights and a mishmash of mostly ugly ornaments. Kenny wonders if Butters went out of his way to choose the ugly ones. Maybe his parents never let him put those ones on their tree.

There are snowmen candy dishes and wreaths to spare, and lights twisting up the banister flanking the stairs.

It makes Kenny feel lonely. His apartment lacks holiday décor so completely that he sometimes forgets that it's about to be Christmastime. Stan and Kyle will be home again soon with their families. He wonders if they'll follow through with their promise to keep tabs on him, or if they just dropped in once so that they didn't feel like complete sacks of shit for leaving Kenny in the way that they did.

Kenny shakes his head and tugs off his shoes, leaving them beside the plaid house slippers that could belong to nobody but Butters. He flips the lights on and ascends the stairs slowly. He doesn't know why, but this house feels haunted. There are pictures of the entire Stotch family mounted above the banister, Butters seeming to age with each higher photo, while his parents still wear the same American Gothic expressions in each, only their clothing changing from frame to frame.

Butters smiles the same dopey grin in every last family photograph. Kenny wishes he knew how Butters was able to do that.

He tears himself away at last at the top of the stairs. The bathroom is painstakingly neat. It looks as though Butters barely lives here. Kenny supposes that this is recently true – Butters has been staying with him in his shitty apartment. He doesn't understand why he'd leave a house with heat and hot water for Kenny's crappy living space, but doesn't question it too far. He likes having Butters around.

Kenny showers in bliss for almost an hour. He doesn't watch the clock as he scrubs himself clean of his blood and his dog's blood, getting the smell of sex and cigarette smoke off of him. The fouler aromas of the night are replaced with the smell of Butters' soap and ambiguously fruit-scented shampoo.

He dresses in Butters' things, which he finds tidily folded in a rolling suitcase in the center of Butters' childhood bedroom floor.

When Kenny returns to his own apartment, he feels better. He's confused, and he's scared, but he's calm.

"Hey Ken," Butters greets quietly when Kenny knocks on his own apartment door. He's on the couch with Kenny's throw blanket tucked around his shoulders, messing around on his laptop.

"Where, um. How – how is she?" Kenny manages, afraid of the answer but resigned to a bad one.

Butters points to Esther's doggy bed, where the pitbull is on her side. She's wearing a plastic cone around her head, and her front legs have casts on them. One is red, and the other is green.

"She's all drugged out," explains Butters.

"Her legs look festive," remarks Kenny, quirking a brow.

"I thought it might be nice to have them done in Christmas colors," Butters admits.

And it's such a ridiculous thing to think, but _of course_ Butters thought of it, because why wouldn't he? Kenny's face cracks into a grin. He's relieved, so fucking relieved that for a second, everything is okay. For an instant, all that was on his mind was wondering why Esther had casts on her legs in red and green.

He flops onto the couch beside Butters, who closes his laptop and sets it aside, opening the blanket as an offer for Kenny to join him. He does.

Kenny falls asleep there.

**o.o.o.o**

When Kenny wakes on the couch, it's mid-afternoon, and Butters is already awake. Kenny's lying on top of him. He doesn't know how they shifted into that position, but Butters is running his fingers through Kenny's clean hair, and it's the nicest way that Kenny thinks he's ever woken up.

They kiss languidly when Kenny opens his eyes at last, pressing their lips to each other's necks and jaws sleepily, before they move to Kenny's bedroom for a round of lazy of sex. Butters makes Kenny breakfast afterward. Their day proceeds like nothing happened the night before, when in reality, everything in Kenny's world came crashing down in a handful of hours. The only proof of it, however, is the faint bloodstain that Butters tried to scrub from the linoleum, the gun still sitting on the kitchen counter, and the fact that Kenny has to set up Esther's food and water bowls beside her and help her eat.

Kenny's phone vibrates in his pocket when he's flopped over Butters on his bed, watching Wall-E on Butters' laptop.

His good mood sinks into painful oblivion when he sees "Fatass" flash on the front screen of his cheap-ass phone.

"Yeah?" Kenny answers wearily. Butters must pick up on the tone of his voice, because he pauses the movie and watches Kenny curiously, a slight frown puckering on his face.

"_I need you in this morning, poor boy_," Cartman says. He doesn't even sound angry, just resigned.

"Why? It's only like four," Kenny complains.

"_Because we have some shit to discuss, you stupid asshole, and I don't have fucking time to piddle around the issue. Be here in a half hour, or I'll send my guys to escort you, got that?_"

The line clicks dead.

"W-Was that Eric?" asks Butters.

"Yeah," Kenny mutters. He slides off of the bed and pulls socks onto his feet.

"Where are you goin'?" Butters questions.

"Don't play stupid, Butters. You know where I'm going."

"Can I at least give you a lift?" Butters mashes his knuckles together and looks like he thinks he's said something wrong by offering Kenny a ride to work.

Kenny shakes his head and answers, "You know that's a bad idea, dude."

"Why?" Butters says, "I'll bet he already knows by now, so what's the big deal? I don't like keeping secrets like this, Ken. I wanna tell everybody I got you." He goes pink in the face after he speaks, but doesn't retract his words. Butters just watches Kenny carefully, wringing his hands like he always does when he feels admonished.

Kenny pulls on his socks and sighs. He sits back on the mattress and leans over, kissing Butters. A kiss is all he's got, frankly. Anything else Kenny can give Butters is worth jack shit, and he doesn't understand how a man can take so little and still give so much. It pisses Kenny off how little he has to offer Butters in return for everything he's done. He fucking paid for the vet bill last night, for God's sake, and gave him the keys to his house so that Kenny could have his first hot shower in an age.

"I don't want to get you in anymore trouble," he says, "This is already worse than I thought. I don't want you involved. You could get hurt, dude."

"I can hold my own, Ken," Butters responds, "I f-fought in a fuckin' war. I got tortured for three months before anybody came to get me, and you're worried about me gettin' hurt? No offense, but that's the darned stupidest thing I've heard all day."

"None taken," Kenny smiles weakly.

"Let me give you a ride."

"No."

"I'm giving you a ride, Kenneth McCormick," Butters says, folding his arms.

"…Okay."

The only unfortunate part of being given a lift to Polly is that Kenny gets there too soon. They sit parked in the back lot for a few silent minutes, before Butters tugs Kenny into a kiss by the collar of his jacket. Kenny wishes that he could sit in that car and kiss Butters forever, but the kiss comes to a close, and he knows that whatever awaits him inside the club needs his attention.

"You got any problems, you call me. You hear, mister?" Butters says sternly.

"Yes, mother," Kenny teases, which earns him a slap on the arm.

They kiss twice more before Kenny gains the courage to duck out of the car, and into the club.

He's never liked being in Polly during the day. He's only been there during daylight hours a few times before, and it has a feel of yawning emptiness, like a lonely cavern that's waiting to be filled by bodies and booming music. Kenny shoves his hands in his pockets, walking directly to Cartman's office. One of the doors is slightly ajar, and so Kenny forgoes knocking, instead shoving it open with his shoulder.

The place looks like a wreck. There's paperwork everywhere. An empty bottle of brandy sits on the desk among the wreck beside a glass that still contains ice and looks as though it has only just been drained. Cartman is slouched back in his ornate chair, suit coat missing, tie loosened and hanging flaccidly around his neck, and the top two buttons on his black shirt undone, revealing a sheen of sweaty chest.

"What the fuck is going on?" Kenny sputters out. He doesn't just mean the chaos that has become Cartman's typically lavish office, but _everything_.

Cartman must understand this, because he dabs at the hair stuck to his forehead by sweat with the sleeve of his designer shirt and replies, "I overextended myself."

"I don't know what that means, fatass. Explain it to me."

"We're in a shit economy," Cartman goes on.

Kenny flops down into one of the chairs across from Cartman, placing his elbows on the desk. He says, "Yeah, I know that."

"I thought I had it all, Kinny. I was making a whole lot of money," Cartman says.

"Was?"

"I thought I was, anyway. I inherited this place from my mom, as you know. I inherited her money, too. She saved every penny that she made from this place. I blew it on a load of bullshit – this fucking brandy, the cigars, the clothes, the police, my fucking cufflink collection."

"What are you saying?" Kenny inquires cautiously, afraid of the answer.

"I'm broke."

"Surprise fucking surprise," Kenny snips.

"Your debt has been paid off for two years, Kinny," Cartman adds.

What?

"What?" Kenny says.

"Fucking Stoley wanted to tell you, but you didn't listen. I owe a lot of guys a lot of fucking money, and you made me the most – you'd be amazed at how much pricks like Stephen Stotch are willing to pay for a little discreet ass," Cartman continues.

He…Cartman couldn't have. He's an ass, but he wouldn't have been this dishonest, right?

"You're shitting me," Kenny insists, but his voice is on a thin thread. He can't believe this. He cannot _fucking _believe this. His voice raises, his fists are shaking. He stands, and shouts, "Are you fucking kidding me? All the incredible bullshit that you've put me through, and it could have fucking ended two goddamn years ago? That's beyond low, Cartman, it's fucking unbelievable! I'm leaving. I'm fucking leaving right now, and you can't stop me anymore, can you?" Kenny starts for the door, but Cartman clears his throat and begins to speak again.

"No, I can't stop you," Cartman admits, "but you don't have anywhere to go, do you? They'll find you."

Kenny stops. He closes the door and demands through gritted teeth, "_Who_ will find me?"

"Sergio," Cartman simplifies.

"How? I paid my debt, you fucking lowlife!"

"I made a deal with him. Years ago. Shortly after I saved your dumb ass, in fact," Cartman says, "I owe him more money than fucking ten of your debts, poor boy, and he's holding us both accountable. He'll go for your family first, I imagine. I already told him where your mother lives, and it's only a matter of time before he finds out about Karen. And, I'm told, Sergio knows about your little _slut._"

"Butters," Kenny rasps, before he can stop himself.

"Am I mistaken, or did you tell me that you were going to get rid of his twink ass?" Cartman mops more sweat off of his brow, and looks longingly at his brandy bottle, as if wishing it was full again.

"Yeah, well, I lied," Kenny says. He figures that the cat's out of the bag now.

Cartman curses under his breath and stands. Kenny steps back, for a moment assuming that Cartman has gotten out of his chair to hit him. He does not, however, hit Kenny. He begins to pace the office, hands hooked behind his doughy back. When he speaks again, he stops, and looks Kenny dead in the eyes, "Let me get this to you straight – you are fucking the little asshole's father. I managed to smooth over last night's incident. Stephen is willing to continue his business if you continue your end of the deal – to submit completely. I'm fucking serious, here, Kinny. You can't fuck both the daddy and the boy. They know. Stephen Stotch is providing almost all of my income right now, and he wants you to himself. Do you understand where I'm going with this?"

"You want me to dump Butters."

"More than dump, poor boy. I want you to crush him. I know how he gets. Once he's attached to something, he won't let go. People like him, they're like leeches. It's what they do. You need to rip his fucking heart out, and stomp on it. You know why?"

"Why?" Kenny flatly asks.

"Because if we lose Stephen Stotch, we are dead. I don't mean that metaphorically, either. I mean that you and everybody you love will be killed. It's out of my hands, Kinny. It is up to you to get us out of this wreck," Cartman says.

"Me! I have nothing to do with this!" Kenny barks.

"Excuse me, do you want your family dead? We're in this together, or we're six feet under," Cartman glares at Kenny.

Kenny can't move, at first. It takes a soundless moment for him to realize that he needs to sit. He collapses in one of Cartman's chairs, running both of his hands through his hair. He blows out all of the air in his lungs, feeling sick. He can't let them get hurt. Not his mama or his baby sister or Butters. They're the only decent things in his world, and he needs to keep them safe.

Before Kenny catches up with his own racing mind, he realizes that he's nodding numbly. He says, "Okay."

"Okay?" Cartman folds his arms questioningly.

An awful, all-consuming feeling takes Kenny's gut by storm. This is it. He is a puppet in his life, and Cartman is his puppeteer. He's gotten himself into a situation that he can't get out of without hurting the people that he cares most about. He feels an overwhelming urge to kill himself, but pushes it away, because he'd only come back in better health than he was before taking his life.

Kenny has no options.

He just has this.

"Okay," repeats Kenny, "I'll get rid of Butters."

"You have to crush him, poor boy," Cartman says, "And get it done by Christmas. We're in this together. Remember that."

"Is this why you decided to do Bebe's fucking play?" asks Kenny. It hadn't made any fucking sense. Why would he have given Bebe a chance to do anything, even if he was working her to the bone with edits and cuts?

Cartman gives a curt nod, "It's our final hope, poor boy. If we can bring in enough revenue from that, we'll be safe. If not, we're dead."

Kenny gets back onto his feet, still with that ill feeling sloshing in his stomach. Cartman snaps his fingers behind Kenny and says, "Not so fast."

"What?" Kenny bites out, tempted to ask _what else can you possibly do to me_?

"We're shaking on it," Cartman tells him, sticking out his meaty hand.

Kenny sighs, and clutches Cartman's hand with his own, shaking firmly.

**o.o.o.o**

**Okay, so originally I intended to have this chapter be a lot longer, but with some help from the talented Chasing Rabbits, we determined that this was the place to end the chapter, and that the other piece would have to wait. **

**Thank you, as always, to you gorgeous people that keep me writing all the time: Lying Honesty, Lilykinz200, TheAwesome15, KirstenTheDestroyer, Wendlekins, namelessJane, Crazy88inator, KeiMaxwell, Chasing Rabbits, FlyAwayMax, mallorymichael (finally!), MariePierre, and prettyoddrydonfan. **

**See you guys next chapter! **


	15. Said My Goodbyes

**Chapter Track: Breathe In Breathe Out – Polly Scattergood**

Today is Christmas Day.

Kenny is resigned to feel lonely this year – Karen is with the Donovans again and Butters, though he has promised Kenny that he will try and visit this afternoon, is spending Christmas morning at the hospital with his mother. Kenny doesn't understand the appeal. Personally, if his mom went psycho and ended up in psychiatric care, he'd leave her and run. Maybe. No, maybe not his own mother. He does love his mama, despite everything. It's Linda that bothers him. Kenny's mom never tried to drown him, and she did _try_ to raise her babies right. It didn't work well, maybe. But one out of three ain't too bad, Kenny thinks.

Even though shit was scarce as a kid, the McCormick lot woke up like every kid did on Christmas morning, sitting on the top of the stairs, waiting to open the presents under the tree. They didn't have many, only a couple each, but he knew his mom scrimped and saved every last spare penny to make sure that they had _something_ to open on Christmas day. Today, when Kenny wakes in the afternoon, he lets himself sit around under his covers and stay warm for however long he wants. He doesn't have any presents under his tree – mostly because he doesn't have a tree.

What gets him out of his bed is the special food he bought for his dog, who's going to be mostly immobile for quite some time. He bought the most expensive, fanciest shit the local grocery had to offer for dogs. It's Christmas, after all. His old girl deserves a present after the shit that she's been through.

Though Butters can't be around today, he did leave his laptop for Kenny to watch movies on. He figures he'll just mope around the apartment and do that, since it's too cold outside to walk around, nothing's open, and his dog can't go for walks, anyway.

It doesn't fucking feel like Christmas.

Maybe because he's supposed to have gotten rid of Butters by now, but Kenny hasn't found the heart to be able to do it yet. He's spent the past week and a half running over and over again in his head how he's supposed to push Butters away so hard that he won't come back – and he doesn't _know_ how. He can't just say 'go away,' because Butters will refuse. He's been taking care of Kenny. He won't give that up after hearing a couple of useless words. Butters doesn't _just give up_. He's never been the type. He follows through with everything he says he fucking will, and for whatever reason, Butters has chosen Kenny to be one of the things that he follows through with.

He dishes out the goopy dog food into Esther's bowl, mixing in her pain meds, and sets it in front of her. She looks up at him, her eye looking sleepy, and wags her tail half-heartedly. He frowns at her and scratches behind her ears, scooting the bowl forward.

"At least one of us is dressed up," he says. Where she has festive Christmas casts, Kenny is wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt so old that he's somehow managed to wear holes into the armpits.

Fuck. She knows that he's been in a mood lately. Kenny doesn't know how dogs can be as intuitive as they are, but she is, and she knows. He wonders if she's narrowed it down in her dog brain to Butters as the cause.

Kenny hasn't been able to keep himself upbeat around Butters. All he can think when he sees him is that he has to get rid of him somehow, or he might end up hurt. If Butters ends up in the places that Kenny did with Sergio, he will die. It will be permanent. Most of the time, he can't work himself up enough to want to have sex, which he knows Butters has noticed – for awhile, they were insatiable. Now Kenny just wants to curl up under the blankets with Butters and hold him there as long as he can.

Kenny cares too fucking much to let that happen to the man.

He knows that he's going to receive a call from Cartman tonight, asking if Kenny's done the deed. He's been asking every night if it's happened yet, and all Kenny can do is shake his head.

"Get it fucking done, poor boy. Unless you want Butters and everyone you love dead as shit, of course," Cartman will say. He's tired of hearing that, but maybe he needs to keep hearing it anyway. Kenny has to remind himself of the stakes.

It's not even two o'clock in the afternoon, and all Kenny wants to do is kick back whiskey until he can't see straight.

Instead – just in case somebody decides to pay him a visit, as unlikely as that is – he opts for orange juice instead and reheats some of the fancy pasta that Butters cooked for him a couple of nights ago.

Why is it so hard to let this go?

Letting Butters go has become equal in Kenny's mind to letting Karen go, in that it's fucking impossible.

But he has to do it, or both of those people will get hurt, maybe killed. And he'll be the one to blame. If he wasn't immortal, he'd solve this problem by offing himself. Then nobody would have to deal with shit that's Kenny's own business and Cartman would have to deal with his own fucking mess by himself.

But Kenny can't kill himself and solve all these problems. He'll just come back. He's so angry at himself so this. It makes him want to scream and throw shit and bang his head against a wall, all of which would be about as productive as shooting himself in the head, which is to say, not. _He_ is the cause of all this fucking strife. _He_ is the reason that there is a threat on the lives of Karen and Butters and his mama.

He is the problem.

Karen is covering his ass for her own wedding. Butters is still getting headaches from his spill on the playground before Kenny died, and apparently, is still dreaming of Kenny's deaths. He's fucked everyone over.

But he can't rightly fix himself, so he's got to sever ties with everybody that matters to him.

What if he can't make it to Karen's wedding? He has to make it to Karen's wedding. It'll break both their hearts if he doesn't. She's only getting married once. You can't take back not making it to your baby sister's wedding.

Kenny is relieved when there's a knock on his door. At least he'll get to see somebody's face for Christmas, even if it's his grizzly douchebag landlord sniffing around for the rent.

His insides twist up when he opens the door to a grinning Butters. Most of Kenny is so happy that somebody bothered to give a shit about him on Christmas, but the rest of him is dreading the inevitable hurt that he's going to have to cause.

"Merry Christmas, Ken!" he exclaims, extending his hand. In it is a present.

Kenny takes it. It's a harmonica, on which Butters has a stuck a little red bow. Kenny swallows the lump in his throat and says, "Butters, this is fucking sweet. Why are you standing all the way out there? Come in. I have your leftover cooking, if you're hungry." Butters is supporting his love of the blues, and of music. This can't be good, and Kenny knows it. Nobody ever gave a shit about the things that Kenny cared about. His heart is swelling and knotting at the same time. It's a painful combination, but he can't stop it.

"Actually, I got one more present here for you," Butters grins.

Butters reaches for something to the left of him, and Kenny almost cranes his neck to see, but he stops himself, wondering if he should even be accepting gifts, knowing what he has to do tonight.

His stomach plummets when he sees it.

A guitar.

"I – you –" Kenny can't come up with what to say. He takes the instrument from Butters gingerly. His head is swimming. He needs to sit down. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. He can't accept this. He wants nothing more than to be able to accept it, but he can't do it. Not in good conscious. Not at all.

"Butters, I – I can't take this from you," Kenny says weakly. His voice is so small, but he can't make it bigger. He stares at it. It's a Gibson, the thing must have cost two grand at least. How could Butters blow so much money on somebody like Kenny? This is wrong, it's just wrong, and Kenny doesn't know if it's possible to feel worse than he does right now, knowing that he has to break this off by the end of tonight. He says, "It's too much, baby. You – it must have cost so much, I can't –" his voice falters, sticking inside his throat and sliding back down into him.

Butters' brows sweep together, and he frowns, "Why? Don't you like it?"

"Shit, of course I do. It's gorgeous. It's just so much, I couldn't possibly –"

"Well, you're worth it," Butters says.

"I'm what?" Kenny dumbly asks.

"You're worth it, darlin'. Sometimes I think nobody must've ever told you that, 'cause you sure seem confused about how amazing you are," hums Butters cheerfully.

"I'm not amazing, I'm a useless prick," Kenny argues. Butters finally sweeps into the apartment and shuts the door behind him.

Butters presses a kiss to Kenny's stubbly cheek and remarks, "Mister, I've met plenty of useless pricks in my time, and let me tell you, yours ain't one of 'em." Butters then winks – _winks_ – at Kenny, and slips off his sneakers, neatly arranging them beside Kenny's door. It's only then that Kenny notices that Butters is wearing a horribly ugly sweater, some light blue contraption with a snowman on the front – a snowman whose scarf has jingle bells sewn onto it.

Kenny still clutches the guitar, staring stupidly after Butters as he pads into the kitchen and surveys the contents of Kenny's fridge. Butters has made himself a home in that refrigerator, many of his cooking ingredients are in the drawers and on the shelves. Kenny doesn't touch them, even though it's his home, because he knows that when Butters brings new spices or vegetables over, he has a meal in mind.

"I got you a tuner for that thing, too," Butters mentions, "It's in my back pocket. You're welcome to it."

"Butters, if you want me to manhandle your ass, you just gotta say so," Kenny says back, helpless but to smile. Why does Butters get to make him feel this good? It isn't fair.

Maybe he should enjoy these last hours. Maybe Kenny could let himself go, just this once. Even though he'd already been disobeying Cartman, he still kept himself in check. Maybe today, as a Christmas present to himself, he could kiss restraint goodbye and just be himself.

Butters says, "Well, alright then. Manhandle away, darlin.'"

Kenny shakes his head while Butters' back is turned and sets the guitar softly on the couch. He creeps up behind Butters and wraps his arms around him, breathing in the clean smell of his neck. He slips his hand into the back pocket of Butters' jeans and pretends to grope around for the tuner before grabbing it and taking it out. Butters just chuckles as he removes carrots from their plastic covering and scouts for a knife.

Kenny plays with the new guitar, tuning it as Butters works diligently on what would appear to be a Christmas dinner.

"Hey, I think I got a name for this lady," Kenny announces, holding up the instrument in case Butters doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about.

"What's that?" asks Butters, though he doesn't look away from the cutting board.

"Marjorine," Kenny says.

"You did not," Butters responds, half-turning to eye Kenny where he's sitting on the couch with the Gibson in his lap.

"I did," Kenny grins – but when Butters smiles back, he falters, and feels guilty all over again. He stares down at the instrument and feels unworthy of this Christmas. He should be spending it alone and feeling like an asshole, not being fed a home-cooked meal, being given presents, and spending time with one of the world's kindest people.

"Aw, c'mon," Butters says. He steps away from his work in the kitchen and wanders to sit beside Kenny on the couch. He continues, "You've been all sad ever since goin' to see Eric that day. What did he say to you? Whatever it is, you know it ain't true. Eric's a dick, and we all know it."

Kenny laughs shakily. He wants to be able to tell Butters that what Cartman told him was true, and he wants to tell Butters exactly what that truth is, but he can't. He simply can't put Butters in danger. It wouldn't be right, and after all the awful things that Kenny has done in his lifetime, he needs to do something good for fucking once.

Butters studies Kenny for a moment and then concludes, "Okay, so you don't wanna talk about it. That's just fine. Maybe a nice dinner and some Christmas sex will cheer your ass up."

"I don't get it," Kenny says, before Butters can get up.

"Get what?"

"Why are you so nice to me? I don't deserve it," Kenny blurts. He doesn't deserve the kindness, no, but that hasn't stopped him from wanting it desperately. He feels this urge to attach himself to Butters and never let go for fear that Butters will leave him, but then Kenny realizes that he's going to have to leave Butters, anyway.

"You sure as shit do deserve it. You just think you don't 'cause there ain't never been anybody giving it to you before," Butters rises and brushes back a bit of Kenny's hair, placing a kiss on his forehead, "I gotta get back to cooking, unless you wanna go hungry."

A little less than an hour later, they're eating side by side on Kenny's couch, watching cheesy Christmas specials that Butters inexplicably owns on DVD. Kenny decides to throw caution to the wind – he's going to hurt himself over this anyway – and scoots closer, leaning his head on Butters' shoulder. He wants to fall asleep, but he doesn't want to waste a second, and every moment that they sit around doing nothing is a potential waste.

He kisses Butters' cheek. It smells like aftershave. Kenny almost chuckles at the idea of Butters shaving, but instead, presses damp little kisses along the edge of his jaw. Butters _mmm_s and leans into Kenny's lips. Neither of them are going to be able to dawdle any longer.

"You wanna take this elsewhere?" Kenny asks quietly. He doesn't know why, but he wants this last time with Butters to be in a proper bed. He's usually all for sex in creative places and even more creative ways, but he has something else in mind for tonight, and he feels that the most traditional location might be best for the job.

"You bet I do," Butters says, sounding more eager than sexy. Kenny grins and kisses him full on the lips. In these recent weeks, Kenny has found that nothing turns him on quite like Butters almost innocent enthusiasm for sex.

In his bedroom, Kenny lies back on top of the covers, gesturing lightly for Butters to come and join him. Butters does, planting himself between Kenny's legs, on top of him. They share a long, intricate kiss. Kenny wants to memorize the inside of Butters' mouth, to lick every nook and get every taste he possibly can. There won't be any of this after tonight. All he'll have is what he remembers. He grips Butters by the back of the head and tugs him down into the kiss deeper, squeezing his eyes shut and kissing as hard as he can.

Butters kisses back with equal fervor, but his hands are gentler. One strokes through Kenny's long hair, and the other clutches onto his shoulder. Kenny can hardly believe that he was afraid of somebody so gentle touching him before. The notion seems silly in retrospect – mistrusting Butters. Kenny is the one that shouldn't be trusted. He's taking advantage, maybe, by allowing himself have this last time before he pushes forward with his career under Cartman.

Kenny grows hard underneath his sweatpants. Butters is hard, too. It still makes Kenny feel just the slightest twinge of smugness, being able to do that to a person that he actually gives a damn about doing it to.

He wraps his arms around Butters' back, tearing his mouth from Butters' to take a breath, before they both dive in a second time. Butters starts making small noises in the back of his throat with each stroke of Kenny's tongue. Kenny thrusts up against him, grazing their erections together. They both moan into each other's mouths before repeating the movement, sparking a series of soft but certain pushes against each other, punctuated by kisses broken only to breathe, panting chuckles, groans and encouragements when one of them has found exactly the right spot.

Butters presses his hands up underneath Kenny's ripped up t-shirt, pulling it over his head in a move that is strangely graceful for the both of them. Typically, their sex is a little clumsier and uncertain, but then, Kenny realizes that he's never been more sure that he wants something in his life.

Butters' own shirt soon follows, fluttering to the stained carpet below. Kenny swallows, taking the sight in – the scar from the bullet, the marks from the belt that Kenny can see when Butters turns just slightly, the boyish smile he sees when he looks back up at Butters' face.

"Butters," Kenny whispers, not sure why he feels the need to keep his voice low.

Butters leans down and licks along Kenny's earlobe. He hums, "Yes?"

"I want you to um – I want you," Kenny finishes lamely, and he knows that Butters won't understand what he's asking right away.

"You're gonna have to hold your horses, darlin'. We're getting to that part," Butters says. Kenny feels him smile against his jaw, kissing Kenny's stubble in tiny pecks.

Kenny exhales and says, "I mean, er. I want you_ in_ me." Holy shit, he feels little he's a fucking kid again, explaining to his first real girlfriend that he wants her to put her mouth on his dick because it feels nice.

Butters cocks his head a little like he didn't hear Kenny's request. When he speaks, he says, "Kenny McCormick, are you blushing?"

Kenny's hand shoots up to feel his face, which is as hot as though he has a fever. He laughs a little and answers, "I guess I am."

Butters smooths his hand through Kenny's hair and replies, "You sure you want me touchin' you? I have to, unless you want to get yourself ready."

His heart slams against his ribcage. It's a question that Kenny thought he would be content to never answer in the affirmative, but now, everything's different. Everything was different months ago, when Butters showed up a Polly on his fucking motorcycle, offering a ride, even though Kenny had embarrassed them both and hidden Butters in a closet for the night. Kenny swallows and nods. He rasps, "I want you to touch me everywhere, baby."

Butters looks stunned. He sits back a little. Kenny wonders if he's said something wrong, if he's made Butters uncomfortable – but surely, that's impossible. There is nothing that either of them can do to make the other uncomfortable. They've shared so much in so little time, it can't be that they could put one another ill at ease.

Then, the corner of Butters' mouth quirks up, making a funny-looking, lopsided smile. He says, "Shit, Ken. I'll do whatever you'd like me to. I'll take good care of you, darlin', I promise. I'm a dang good top when I get the opportunity." Butters winks, and Kenny feels like crying. If Butters calls Kenny his darling one more time, he might just do that.

The whole tone changes as soon as the exchange is out. Butters makes careful, calculated little touches and kisses all over, so methodically and so thoughtfully all at once that Kenny finds himself unable to think straight. Butters knows all his little tics. He knows how Kenny loves to have his ears kissed and chest touched, how he loves to be held onto. Butters also knows that Kenny prefers to be in control most times, but tonight isn't like that. Kenny wants his control gone from this one place in his life – sex – and given up to Butters, because Butters deserves it.

Butters tugs Kenny's sweatpants down over his hips, casting them aside. A smirk fits onto his face and he asks, "Goin' commando on Christmas, huh?"

Kenny barks out a choked laugh. His chest feels so full, almost like it should hurt, but nothing hurts at all. He just feels replete with this eerie _thing_ he can't give a name to, because he's never felt something quite like it before. Butters kisses either of Kenny's hips, right at the definition of his pelvis. It's so precise that Kenny laughs again, and Butters quirks his brows, daring Kenny to tell him 'what's so dang funny.'

Butters kisses right at the tip of Kenny's leaking cock, licking a short line across the top. Kenny moans helplessly and pushes his erection up toward Butters' mouth. Butters runs his tongue over his lips before gripping Kenny by his hips, holding him down, taking Kenny's cock into his mouth, inch by painfully slow inch.

"Christ, Butters," Kenny chokes out. He will never be able to get over how good this guy is at giving head. He murmurs feverishly, "Where'd you learn to suck a guy off like this?"

Butters pops up to give Kenny the most salacious grin he's ever seen on that face and answers, "Practice." Then, he ducks back down to return to his ministrations, sliding his tongue _just right_, making Kenny cry out loudly. Kenny fists a hand in Butters' short hair and tugs a little when Butters hums. Butters moans around his dick.

"You like having your hair pulled?" Kenny pants out. He didn't know – Butters' hair is mostly too short to yank on properly. Not that this knew knowledge of Butters will matter anymore, he supposes.

Butter nods but doesn't lift off of Kenny's cock. Instead, he works harder, bobbing faster until Kenny feels like he might burst into thousands of tiny pieces of himself. That _tongue_, fuck, that tongue. Butters just _knows. _

Kenny comes without warning, up into the heat of Butters' mouth. Shit, he's so fucking gone, he can't even manage an 'I'm coming'? Kenny just gasps and whines. Butters pulls off and swallows, looking Kenny in the eye all the way through. Butters takes Kenny's astonishment as an opportunity to rid himself of both pants and festive candy cane boxers, which make Kenny grin to himself for the instant that they're visible and not thrown to the floor.

Butters retrieves the lube and condoms from their usual place, lining them up side by side about six inches from Kenny's right thigh. He thinks this is an intentional measurement; for all Butters' bursts of happiness and random-ass thoughtfulness, Butters is a precise fucker.

Butters gives his own erection a couple of encouraging pulls before hovering over Kenny to place a kiss at the top of his head. He uncaps the lube and squeezes some onto his hand, but not before giving Kenny a reassuring, "I don't know how much you do this kinda thing, darlin', but I promise that I'll make you feel good."

"I know," Kenny replies, because he's trying to speak instead of cry.

Butters positions himself between Kenny's legs, making careful adjustments, his light brows knit in concentration. Kenny thinks that if he wasn't so worked up and hazy, he might make fun of Butters for being so focused on the task at hand. Instead, he just wants Butters as close to him as possible, and he wants to hold him there for as long as he can.

Butters strokes his fingers through Kenny's hair and smiles boyishly like he always does, before pushing a single, slick finger inside of him. They kiss, not as hard as before, but on Butters' terms – it's sweet and well-meaning, if a little sweaty. He begins to move his finger in and out of Kenny's body, keeping their gazes connected, as if looking for any possible sign of discomfort. When he doesn't find any, Butters pushes miniature kisses to Kenny's temples and works his way down, along his jaw and down his throat, where he stops to suck and nip. Butters shifts and adds a second finger. Kenny whines.

"Y'alright?" he whispers against Kenny's throat.

Kenny nods soundlessly. Butters pulls up to look at him. He keeps massaging with his fingers, but says, "You look like you're about to cry."

Kenny's eyes are welling up. They have been. He's overstimulated. He feels so _good_ with Butters working him like this. And for fuck's sake, it's Butters of all people, Butters treating him like this – stuffing him with good food and giving him Christmas presents and kneeling here now with Kenny's legs hitched up around him, treating Kenny more carefully than Kenny's been treated in his life.

Kenny just nods again, because there's nothing else that he can do.

"_Why_ are you about to cry?" Butters says. He doesn't look upset himself. He must know that he's treating Kenny like goddamn royalty, like nobody's ever treated him before.

Kenny sniffs, willing himself back into some semblance of composure, but failing. He wipes his eyes on his arm and blinks. He shakes his head, laughs pathetically, and manages with voice hoarse, "I'm just happy, baby."

These words ease the crease between Butters' brow. He gives a slow nod and whispers, "Me too."

They kiss again. Butters eases his tongue in Kenny's mouth at the exact moment that he massages along Kenny's prostate. Kenny writhes and whines inside Butters' mouth. He can feel Butters grin into the kiss as he continues to work his fingers along that spot. Kenny tries to keep still so as not to fuck up their rhythm, but he can't help but press himself up against Butters' hand. It feels better for him than anything has felt in so long. He doesn't know what to do with himself, other than pump his body up against those clever fingers, like he's trying to make it feel even better. Feeling this good should be illegal, he thinks. And in a way – it is. Kenny isn't supposed to be doing this. He shouldn't let himself feel this good with Butters anymore. It's a disservice to both of them.

But he doesn't fucking care. He wants this so badly that it makes his chest ache and his vision double.

Kenny's getting hard again, just barely, at first, but as Butters works, sliding a third finger in to meet the other two, Kenny is at full-mast again.

Butters must take that as his cue to withdraw his hand, reaching for the condoms. He struggles with one of the packets, his stiff fingers slipping, and says nothing until Kenny takes it from him and rips it open without ceremony, rolling the latex over Butters' erection. Kenny pours lube over the finished result, and cooperatively lifts himself up, propping up his lower back with his pillow.

Butters cocks a brow when Kenny makes a whining noise in his throat. He tucks a lock of Kenny' hair behind his ear and kisses his brow before murmuring, "You look real nice all spread out like this."

Kenny laughs, and Butters kisses the laugh out of him, before he situates himself and says, "You ready?"

"Mm," Kenny finds himself reaching down, searching blindly for Butters hand. Butters scoots his fingers forward and grips Kenny's hand in his, before he eases their bodies together. He isn't rough like Kenny tends to be. He's attentive. His eyes are heavy-lidded, mouth half-open as he groans. He squeezes Kenny's hand before pulling back and thrusting forward again.

Butters begins to move slowly, giving Kenny reassuring kisses every time he grips Butters' hand a little tighter. Kenny laces his legs up around Butters, hooking them at the ankle. He gasps when Butters plunges further, working harder. A sheen of sweat decks his forehead, but he isn't sweating enough to drip, not like many of the men that Kenny has been with.

Kenny's eyes shutter closed as he pulls himself up to meet each plunge. He likes it without having to look, how he can feel each movement more keenly, how he can hear each sound more loudly, how he can lose himself more easily. The last thing that Kenny wants to do right now is to remember where he is, who he is, and what's happening. Right now, all he wants is this to be is him, and Butters. Nobody else. Just them.

Butters' hand wraps around Kenny's cock loosely, beginning a second rhythm. They're sticking, and every time that their bodies meet, they make a noise like velcro, of sticking together and being pulled apart.

"Oh, _s-shit ,_" mumbles Butters, and Kenny feels him go still inside him. Butters tucks his head into the crook of Kenny's neck as he comes, so he can muffle his groans in Kenny's shoulder. He works the hand on Kenny's dick at a faster, frenzied pace until Kenny joins him, spilling his load onto both of their abdomens.

After a beat, Butters exhales loudly and lifts off and out of Kenny, rolling to the edge of the mattress. He pulls off the condom and ducks into the bathroom.

"Come back here," Kenny says tiredly, feeling suddenly cold.

His afterglow is already wearing off. Kenny tosses his head to the side and looks out the window. Outside, it is just beginning to snow. He doesn't know why, but this upsets him.

_You need to rip his heart out, and stomp on it._

That's what Cartman told him to do. That's what Kenny has to do, unless he plans on killing them all. But God, isn't there another way? There has to be another way. Sergio's not immortal. He dies, just like most people do. Maybe they can get to him, take him out. Then they wouldn't have to worry about it. His ring would fall apart. Last Kenny's heard, the man has no successor.

Fuck. No. No, he can't do this. He can't get his hopes up with impossibilities. That would be the fucking stupidest course of action to take. He has to…to somehow rip Butters apart and get him out, preferably out of South Park, maybe even out of the state of Colorado – just _out_. If he's out of here, he's safe.

Kenny doesn't want to.

He doesn't fucking want to.

Shit. He's crying again. Kenny touches his fingertips to his cheek, wiping away the liquid. He can't let Butters see him all emotional like this, or Butters won't let it go. And Kenny knows he won't be able to hang onto his resolve. He'll want to tell him everything.

Kenny mops his eyes with his sheet discreetly, and gives Butters a prize-winning smile when he walks back in and says, "I'm comin', I'm comin'." He sits beside Kenny. In his hand is one of the baby washcloths that he uses to wash his face. He uses it to wipe up Kenny's stomach, having already cleaned up his own. Butters flings it into the laundry hamper in the corner and lifts up the bed covers, tugging them underneath the heat.

The aroma of sex is permeating the room. Kenny doesn't mind the smell, typically, and with Butters, he's even prone to enjoy it. But now, it reminds him of what he does for a living, and what he's supposed to do with Butters now.

"Hey, Kenny," Butters says.

Kenny can't keep this distance. He latches onto Butters underneath the covers and buries his face in his chest, afraid that his face might be blotchy and tear-stained.

"Yeah?" he says into Butters' skin.

"I need to tell you something," Butters replies, fidgeting with Kenny's hair, pulling apart some of the tangles. He explains, "It's kind of important."

Kenny shifts his face back and looks at Butters – his eyes are squeezed closed, like a kid that's afraid of something in a movie.

"Yeah?" Kenny asks, and he kisses Butters' collarbone, "Why do you have your eyes closed like that?"

Butters opens one eye to peek down at Kenny and then laughs it off, sounding nervous. He says, "Well. I, uh, hmm. This is harder than I thought it would be."

"That's what she said," jokes Kenny.

Butters knees him underneath the blankets. He clears his throat and then blurts, "Well, I'm pretty sure that I love you. Like, love you, love you. Not that I think you're cool or funny, though I g-guess I do think those things, because that's what you are, b-but um –" Butters takes a deep breath, "I love you."

Kenny can't speak. When he tries, nothing comes out of his mouth, not even a sound of surprise.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Nobody is supposed to fucking _fall in love_ with him, let alone this man whose heart he is supposed to rip out and stomp on, per Cartman's orders.

He knows what Cartman would say, that this is the perfect opportunity to do just that. But, Jesus Christ, that would make this all feel so much worse than it already does already. Oh, shit. Kenny might be sick. He might throw up. He doesn't know what his insides are doing but it hurts like fucking hell.

Butters frowns and says, "You don't gotta say it back or nothin', I just felt like it was the k-kinda thing I should probably tell you. Not many p-people love me, but I love lots of people. I just kind of love you a lot in particular. I-I'm sorry. I'm ramblin', aren't I?"

Kenny might be having a panic attack.

That's the thing where it feels as though your chest is going to explode and like you can't breathe, right?

Kenny wonders what he did to deserve this life. He's not a good person, but surely nothing he's done in his lifetime has warranted this kind of pain. He tries really fucking hard to be a decent human being, and it seems like all he gets in return is life spitting on him and telling him to go fuck himself, that he's doomed to ruin the lives of those around him, especially the lives of the people that love him.

Well, fuck.

If Kenny doesn't just do it now, he's going to hurt himself more than he already has. The writhing in his stomach is out of control and he thinks his eyes are starting to fill up again, which he can't allow. He's an actor, and he'd better put on the best fucking performance of his life, because – because –

He's terrified that he might love Butters back.

He can't say it.

Like chanting 'Bloody Mary' at his bathroom mirror, saying that he loves Butters too will make it manifest, make it real.

The last thing that he needs is to love Butters Stotch. And he won't let himself love like that. It's not in the fucking cards.

Kenny spends the next several seconds gathering every last scrap of his resolve, and yanks himself out of Butters arms. He's shaking, and whether it's from the cold, or the knowledge of what he has to do, he isn't sure. He pulls himself off of his bed and collects Butters' clothing, pushing it into Butters arms.

Butters looks so confused, his huge blue eyes following each of Kenny's movements as he pulls his sweatpants up over his hips. Kenny hangs his head. He'll be damned if he has to look Butters in the eyes as he says this.

"You need to leave."

It comes out weak, and not in the least convincing.

If he doesn't do this, Butters could die.

Karen could die.

His mom could die.

He'll inevitably end up dead no matter what he does, but he needs to do this for them. It's not fucking about him, not about Kenny McCormick, it's about the people he loves. He won't throw them to the dogs just because he was too much of a selfish coward to do what needed to be done.

Kenny realizes that in order to make this real, in order to make Butters feel that he is telling every ounce of the truth, Kenny _will_ need to look him in the eye. He sets his jaw tight, and raises his head. Butters is still holding his clothes like he doesn't know what's going on. He looks like somebody canceled his Christmas. That would be Kenny – Kenny is canceling Butters' Christmas.

"I don't love you," he forces the words to sound clear and sure.

Butters wilts. He stammers, trying to get words out. His stutter is so bad that Kenny can barely make out the words.

"T-T-That's fine, d-d-darlin'," he says, trying a smile, but it's fragile and cracked and makes Kenny feel like he needs to vomit, "Y-You don't n-need to love me b-back. I g-got enough for the b-both of us, I swear."

"Fuck, you just don't get it, do you? You just came riding up on your fucking motorcycle like it's just _normal_ to go around giving your dad's hooker a ride home, and then making his food, and checking up on him," Kenny raves, "I didn't complain because I wanted somebody around do shit like that for me, sex and food and that shit. You seemed like the easiest choice, okay? You just do whatever anybody tells you because you're a gullible little freak. You love me? Cool. I don't want attachments like that. Just – out. Just get out."

He shatters into a billion pieces at the look on Butters' face. His brows sweep together, he tears his gaze down to the blankets and he starts mashing his knuckles together. He whispers, "I-I understand."

He's not even fighting with Kenny. Why isn't he fighting?

Butters keeps his head down while he dresses and Kenny huffs and storms out of the room. He wishes Butters would hurry so he could pour himself a solid few drinks and forget about what he's done. The guitar – Marjorine – is still resting on his fucking couch. Kenny picks it up, unable still to be rough with the instrument, and thrusts it out at Butters as he comes rushing out from the bedroom.

"Take this back," Kenny commands.

"N-No," Butters refuses. He's wiping at his face – ah, shit, he's crying. He shakes his head vigorously and says, "I w-want you to k-keep it. M-Maybe it'll fuckin' remind you what decent people d-do for each other."

With those last words ringing in Kenny's ears, Butters pries the door open and slams it shut behind him, leaving Kenny alone.

All alone.

Now that he's ripped out Butters' heart, he has to help Cartman come up with the money to pay back Sergio.

It's too much – everything is.

Kenny wanders into his kitchen and pulls out his half-drunk whiskey bottle. He uncaps it and drinks it straight from the bottle. If he's drunk, maybe he won't have to think. God, he'll do anything to stop thinking.

Maybe he'll die.

He just wishes he could die for good.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to my awesome reviewers. Your feedback really does help me improve!: ****Iloveinvaderzim-billyandmandy** , **mallorymichael, Porn Mercenary, The Awesome15, RaiineDays, MariePierre, KirstenTheDestroyer, Kuutamolla, Lying Honesty, KeiMaxwell, and prettyoddrydonfan.**

**This chapter was pretty difficult to write for obvious reasons, so if you guys have any feedback on it, it would be **_**much **_**appreciated. **


	16. These Open Doors

**Chapter Track: Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad? – Moby **

Kenny doesn't know how he ended up spooning his pitbull, crying drunkenly into his empty bottle of whiskey, but there he is. He's crying like a child into Esther's fur. He probably shouldn't have drunk so much. Kenny's a terrible drunk when he's emotional.

The first occasion he can remember being so is when he was thirteen. He and Stan were getting shitfaced together because Wendy had dumped Stan – due to his drinking problem, ironically – and because Kenny's mom had lost her job and he'd begun trying to pick up the slack, dealing Kevin's weed to kids at his middle school. He'd thought no drunk could be worse than Stan, but he'd ended up sobbing in Stan's shoulder barely half a bottle into Stan's parents' liquor cabinet. Stan awkwardly collected Kenny into his lap and comforted him in the sanctity of the Marsh's basement.

Kenny made certain never to get drunk when he was upset again. He smoked, instead. In the end, he supposes that this was his demise. When weed stopped doing it, he just worked his way up through more and more dangerous addictions.

Fuck, he's so fucking stupid.

Somebody is banging on his door.

"Go away!" he shouts at the door, slurring. He doesn't care who it is – his landlord, Cartman – they can all go fuck themselves. At the moment, he'd really rather feel sorry for himself.

"Come on, dude, don't be a dick," says the voice from the other side. It's a familiar voice, and it belongs to Kyle Broflovski.

Kenny lifts his face out of Esther's fur and uses the arm of his crappy sofa to leverage himself onto his feet. He stumbles to the door and pries it open, demanding, "What the fuck do you want?" This is only to find that it is not only Kyle on his doorstep, but Stan, as well.

"Holy shit," Stan says, "You look terrible. How did you get a black eye?"

"What do you _want_?" Kenny repeats, irritated. Still, he reaches up to touch his face. The bruising has faded, but it's still there.

Stan and Kyle both look so fucking _cozy. _They both lead good, wholesome lives that needn't include Kenny. He doesn't understand why they've taken an interest in him. They told him that they'd be here for Christmas, he remembers, and that they'd be visiting him.

They look comfortable, like they had fulfilling Christmas days. Stan is wearing a thick ski jacket and a scarf that looks hand-knit, mostly likely a product of one Sharon Marsh. Kyle is wearing what looks to be a cashmere sweater, the wealthy fucker. Kyle shoves the door open while Kenny stares, preventing any opportunity Kenny would have had to shut them out of his apartment.

"What the hell happened to your dog?" demands Stan upon sauntering in. Of course the first thing that he spots out of place is Esther with her broken front legs.

"It's none of your fucking business," spits Kenny. He retreats to the kitchen to find some more alcohol, though he isn't sure that he hasn't drunk everything he has already. He finds an only slightly dusty bottle of cheap vodka in the back of his liquor cabinet. He wipes it off with the sleeve of his shirt before uncapping it and taking a long pull of the top.

Stan gives Esther's ears a scratch. From here, Kenny can see that she's wary of him, but that he's treating her so kindly that she's inclined to like him. He'd tell Stan to stop touching her, because he's maybe a little jealous – but Esther looks so contented with him that Kenny sourly keeps quiet and tips more vodka back down his throat.

"Dude," Kyle says, "I think you've had enough to drink. Don't you think that you should put that away?"

"No," Kenny flatly responds, and punctuates his statement with another sip of alcohol, even though he's still burning from the last drink. This vodka tastes like shit, almost as bad as if he's been drinking rubbing alcohol. But frankly, Kenny doesn't think that he's drunk enough to deal with these two.

"Where did you get a guitar?" Stan asks.

Finally, somebody notices the thing of beauty on Kenny's couch, his final reminder of what a fucking asshole he is. He hoarsely replies, "Her name is Marjorine."

"Marjorine?" Kyle lifts a brow.

"You got a problem with that, dickface?" Kenny snaps.

"You've _really_ had too much to drink, Kenny," Kyle insists. He sounds so snotty that Kenny wishes he could justify punching him square in his huge nose, but finds that he's too upset at himself to be punching anybody, anyhow. This notion, naturally, makes Kenny want to dissolve into tears again.

He's ruined everything good about his life, and he has no choice but to continue to do so. He is trapped. Butters might have loved him – at least up until a few hours ago, when Kenny blew him to smithereens. He can't get the image of Butters wiping his eyes and pretending he wasn't out of his head, as he told Kenny to keep Marjorine because it'll remind him what decent people do for each other. But Butters is more than a decent person – he's a magnificent person, and one that was in love. _Was. _In love with him, with Kenny.

"Whoa, man, what the fuck?" Kyle exclaims, when Kenny's eyes well up and spill over. To prevent himself from looking as stupid as he believes he does, he tips more vodka down his throat and prays for the best.

Stan stands at last, looking genuinely concerned. Kyle looks less concerned and more freaked out – he's wearing the same expression he would if Kenny were to fall to his knees and vomit on his shoes (which, inexplicably, are velcro sandals underneath which he is wear argyle socks). To be fair, during the era of their friendship, Kenny wasn't as much of a basketcase as he is now. He's a pile of emotion at the moment, whereas last he was close with these men, he was an acne-ridden but suave teenager that cared about almost exactly nothing.

"What happened to you, man?" Stan asks. He looks so genuinely concerned that it makes Kenny's gut hurt. When he reaches to take another gulp of vodka, Kyle yanks the bottle from his hand, screws the cap back on, and shoves it into the nearest cabinet.

Kenny shakes his head and sniffles, wiping his running nose on his long sleeve. He says, "Everything sucks, okay? I made a lot of stupid fucking choices, and now I'm here and I –"

"Did you steal that guitar?" asks Kyle, looking incredulous.

"No!" Kenny exclaims, "It's worse – much worse. Butters gave it to me." He can't tell if he's making sense. He thinks that he might be talking slowly or slurring.

"Butters?" Kyle says, looking more confused than Stan, who looks as though he's just realized something. Kyle goes on, "Why did Butters give you a guitar? I thought he just gave you rides home from work or whatever. That's what you said when we were here last time."

"It escalated a bit," Kenny mumbles.

Stan just rolls his eyes like he knew that this would happen, and Kyle's mouth drops open, making him look a little bit like a fish. He demands, "What do you mean 'escalated'?"

"Long story," Kenny whispers. He finally wanders from the kitchen and flops onto the couch beside the guitar. He pulls Marjorine into his lap and plucks at the strings sadly. The noise coming from the guitar is awful. He can't strum for shit when he's drunk off his ass and his eyes are dried out from crying so much.

Stan clears his throat and suggests, "Hey, why don't you get cleaned up at my parents' place? Maybe after a shower and uh – some cocoa, or something – you'll feel better? And then you can tell us what happened."

"Why the fuck would I do that?" Kenny asks, and he means it honestly. He knows that Stan and Kyle have been trying – sort of. They have been since they found out what Kenny does for work, anyway.

"Because we're your friends," Stan insists, "Please, dude. I'm worried, and so is Wendy, actually, and Kyle is too, even though he's being kind of a dick."

"Hey," protests Kyle.

"That's hardly new," Kenny says. He sets Marjorine clumsily aside on the couch, giving her a drunken pat, before swaying up onto his feet. He stumbles forward and into Stan, which earns a concerned whine from Esther in the corner. Stan holds Kenny up by his shoulders as he turns and reassures his dog, "Don't worry, baby doll. He's okay. He smells like a douchebag, though."

Stan looks like he wants to argue, but instead he responds in a strained voice, "I'll take this as a yes?"

Which is how Kenny lands in the back of Stan's mom's car, huddled in his tatty winter coat with his knees up to his nose and a scowl permanently set on his face. There's some cheesy Christmas station on the radio and it's overshadowed by static. Kenny pulls his hood over his face and grumbles about it being irritating, and Kyle switches it off, much to Stan's dismay ("I like Christmas music, dude").

Stan supports Kenny under his arms and helps him up the icy walk to his parents' house. It's almost nostalgic, really. Kenny can almost hear Randy protesting his responsibility to shovel the sidewalk when it snowed, and Sharon rolling her eyes and doing the job herself. He can't remember the last time that he was here, but he's still engulfed by the feeling of déjà vu as Stan heaves him up the steps.

Inside, it looks like a real home. Randy is sitting on the couch sipping from a can of beer. Sharon sits beside him, knitting what looks to a blanket, in pastel yellow and blue.

When he, Kyle and Stan come parading in, Sharon pulls her reading glasses down lower on the bridge of her nose and asks, "Is that Kenny McCormick?"

Kenny burps and stammers out, "Yes ma'am. I can leave if you want. It's just your son that dragged me over here."

Sharon just lifts her brows, Stan sighs, and Kyle rolls his eyes.

Stan leads him upstairs, to a bathroom that he hasn't seen in years. It's been renovated since he saw it last, and its ragtag appearance had been replaced with a new tile floor and a sunflower theme. Stan sets a folded bundle of clothes on the closed toilet lid. He says, "Um, these are kind of like, from high school? But you're pretty thin, so I think they'll fit."

Kenny begins to feel dizzy in the shower, and so he cuts it short, drying himself off with a bright yellow towel. He dresses in Stan's old clothes, an Eve 6 t-shirt and South Park High School sweatpants, in the awful puke green that was their school's color.

Kenny ineptly wraps the yellow towel around his wet hair and opens the door. Outside waiting for him neither Stan nor Kyle, but a much, much smaller person. Kenny barely recognizes him from the distant once he laid eyes on the kid – it's Christopher. Stan's son. There's a pacifier in his mouth, and so he doesn't speak to Kenny. He does, however, wave. He opens and closes a chubby fist.

"Uh," Kenny manages, feeling kind of like a dick for being so drunk in the presence of a child. It reminds him of his dad, and he doesn't like that, "Hi."

Christopher spits out the pacifier, and only then does Kenny notice that it's attached to his little pajamas by a yellow ribbon. He greets, "Hi!" in a voice far more enthusiastic than Kenny's own. He teeters forward and leans on Kenny's leg for support.

"I don't think that's such a good idea, kid," Kenny mutters, but Christopher doesn't seem to hear him.

"What's your name?" Christopher asks instead.

"I'm Kenny," replies Kenny, tiredly, and he wonders where Stan and Kyle have gotten off to, and if Stan possibly set his son loose on Kenny to make him feel bad about his lifestyle…or something like that. When he takes a second to think about it, it sounds ridiculous. It doesn't stop him from being suspicious.

"There you are!"

Christopher and Kenny both turn their heads, and see Wendy, looking exhausted, climbing to the top of the stairs.

"Mommy!" squeals Christopher, and he releases Kenny to stumble to his mother, who sweeps him up into her arms.

Wendy gives an apologetic look to Kenny and says, "Sorry. He's just learned how to escape from his crib," after which, she leans down and says, "_Somebody_ was supposed to go night-night."

"Not me," Christopher argues, "I'm with Kenny."

Kenny holds up his hands in defense and says, "I don't know where the fuck the dude came from. I just got out of the shower and he was there."

"Kenny," scolds Wendy.

"What?" he says.

"Fuck!" declares Christopher.

"Oh, shit," Kenny says in return.

"Shit!" pitches in Christopher.

Wendy heaves a sigh and mumbles, "Somebody's got a potty mouth just like daddy and his friends."

"Speaking of 'daddy,' where the hell is Stan?" asks Kenny.

Wendy's lips go flat at that, like she looks like she's seen enough for the day. But then, Kenny supposes, Christmas with Randy Marsh in one's midst cannot possibly be an easy feat. She explains, "Stan got into an argument with his father. I think he's sulking in the guest room with Kyle."

"Guest room?" Kenny echoes, because when he last was in the Marsh house, there was no guest room.

"Ah, Shelly's old room. The one at the end of the hall and to the right," supplies Wendy.

Indeed, this is where he finds Stan and Kyle, neither looking nearly as aggravated as Wendy's exhaustion suggested that they would be. They only turn when Kenny pulls the yellow towel off of his head and tosses it onto the bed, next to where Stan is stretched across the mattress with his hands beneath his head.

"Feeling better?" asks Kyle.

"Nope, still drunk as fuck," Kenny announces, and, as if his body wishes to help him make this statement, he sways on his feet. Kyle catches his shoulder and steadies him.

Stan ventures, "Too drunk to explain what happened to you?"

Kenny stares back and forth between his old friends for a long time. Part of him feels as though he should just bounce and tell them both that they don't deserve to be in his life anymore, and that they deserve to know absolutely nothing. But – no. He finds himself wanting to tell them everything, because they're offering friendship. The God's honest truth is that he needs a friend right now, so two is damned generous of the universe to be pushing his way.

He clears his throat and says casually, "Well, I've been sleeping with Butters," in the same way one announces 'it's time for dinner.'

"We figured as much," Kyle responds dryly from behind Kenny. He guides Kenny to sit at the edge of the guest bed's mattress and leans up against the wall, folding his arms in expectation.

"Dude," Stan chides, leveling his eyes at Kyle. Kyle rolls his eyes, but doesn't say anything further.

And so Kenny tells them. He begins with – in as little detail as humanly possible – explaining how his relationship with Butters ended up the way it is (or at least the way it was a few hours ago). Then he moves onto his debt being paid off for two whole years and Cartman using him to continue to make a profit. He explains the illicit deals made with Sergio and how Kenny has no choice but to continue the relationship that he has with Stephen Stotch due to its profitability.

He doesn't know how much sense he makes when he tells them what happened earlier that day, relaying the details of Butters' confession and of Kenny's act. He blubbers drunkenly and ends up burrowing his face into one of the embroidered pillows on the bed, muffling his speech.

"I can't fucking believe him," Kyle fumes when Kenny's finished. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, and his face has started to flush red. He looks like he's about to scream, but when he speaks again, his voice comes out on a thin, dangerous thread instead, "I am going to fucking kill him, Stan. He can't just do this to people. He can't. Cartman's done a lot of horrible fucking things, but this is by the worst."

"It is?" Kenny questions, wondering if they remember when Cartman managed to get Cthulhu to banish them into oblivion, or how he fed his own father to Scott Tenorman in a bowl of chili.

"We can't kill Cartman," Stan says reasonably, "as tempting as it is, but we can give Kenny a decent place to sleep. We can _talk_ to Cartman tomorrow. See if we can figure this out, or something."

"Oh, I'll talk to him, alright," Kyle seethes. He looks nothing like the chilled-out long-haired yoga teacher that he looked to be when he and Stan last appeared at Kenny's apartment, all collected and figured out. He almost resembles the Kyle that Kenny was familiar with in high school – hot tempered, foul mouthed, got-sent-to-anger-management-by-his-mother Kyle Broflovski. He's pacing angrily, arms waving in disbelieving gestures as he rants on about the things he wants to do to Cartman (except that he has descended past referring to Cartman by name and is now merely calling him 'the fatass').

Whereas last they were friends this anger would have made Kenny roll his eyes, he's glad now. Maybe it's because he's drunk. Shit, he doesn't know. But he does know that he's secretly kind of relieved to hear that he has somebody –_two_ somebodies – on his side. He isn't alone. Maybe he can get out of this. It's a ridiculous hope, but somehow, with Stan and Kyle with him, hope doesn't seem as ridiculous as it did before, when Kenny was by himself and crying into a bottle of whiskey.

Kenny becomes so lost in his own mind that he doesn't notice Kyle and Stan both looking at him and talking quietly. When he does notice, however, he demands, "What?"

"We were just figuring where to put you up for the night," Stan explains.

"You don't have to," Kenny responds, "Just drive me back to my place. I need to feed my dog in the morning."

"I can do that," Stan offers, "C'mon. You can sleep in my old room. It's kind of like an office or something now, but it's still got my bed in it."

Kenny finds himself nod. He lets Stan open the door to Shelly's old bedroom for him and guide him across the hall. Stan's old room is a bit of a wreck – there are two desks crammed in with his old twin-sized bed, which is still fitted with his blue and green bedding. After Stan gives a quiet, "Goodnight, dude," and closes the door, Kenny lifts the comforter and slides in.

It smells musty, like it hasn't been in use for a long, long time, which he supposes it hasn't. If he wasn't drunk, he doesn't think that he would be able to get to sleep, but he's thankfully inebriated enough to be tired despite all of the worries running through his head like a broken merry-go-round going too fast. He collapses into dreamless sleep, which he debatably needed more than anything else.

**o.o.o.o**

Kenny wakes in a puddle of his own drool, and would feel guilty, were it not for the pulsating hangover raining through his head. Judging by the piercing light coming in through the window, it's at least noon. Kenny rolls over and grunts at the swing of nausea through his body. He hasn't been this hungover in ages, hasn't seen the point in getting drunk or even felt the need to. He'd made a point of avoiding it, save for when he needed a stiff drink after a long night at work.

On the desk shoved in beside Stan's old bed, atop a stack of papers, is a glass of water and a bottle of Advil. Kenny wonders who thought to leave the pills for him, until he catches a whiff of a light, feminine perfume – Wendy. Of course it was. Kenny sits and basks in the smell for a little while, wondering if this scent makes Stan feel the same way Kenny feels when he catches that clean, almost citrus smell of the soap and face wash that Butters uses.

Then Kenny proceeds to feel like shit.

He sits up when he decides that he can manage it, regretting that he's done so even before he's all the way up. He pulls the glass of water over to him and manages to spill only a little bit on Stan's old t-shirt before popping the lid on the bottle of Advil and downing four, just to be safe.

Kenny doesn't leave the room at least a solid thirty more minutes, and even then, he intends only to take a piss. He doesn't want to run into Sharon, for some reason. Maybe because she was sometimes his second mom, and took care of him when his own mother couldn't. He wonders if she knows what he does for a living and hopes that she doesn't, but he figures that she must – it's hard not to know. The town may have grown, but it's by no means big, and most folks still know everything about each other. His family has always been a gossip commodity, though he knows Sharon tries (at least, she used to when he last knew more about her) to steer clear from gossip as best she could.

Unfortunately, after Kenny tucks himself back into his borrowed sweatpants and dries his hands before exiting the bathroom, he finds a familiar pair of big brown eyes blinking up at him.

"Kenny!" exclaims Christopher, who is now in a polo shirt and sweater vest, which he thinks must be Wendy or Sharon's doing.

His shriek makes Kenny wince, clutching at his head. But it isn't over, of course. Christopher lifts his arms as though he wants to be held and announces, "Up," as though this command works on every person that he has come across.

Apparently, it works on Kenny too. He ducks down and pulls Christopher up into his arms. Immediately, the boy starts chattering about something or another, Kenny thinks he might be talking about a toy he got for Christmas, but his headache is too amplified for him to concentrate.

He stumbles along downstairs, where he finds absolutely nobody around but Sharon Marsh. She is not knitting like last night, but instead, reading a romance novel – the very same romance novel that Butters left in Kenny's house. A pang goes straight to Kenny's heart and he frowns, staring pointedly at where he's mashing the plush carpeting with his bare toes.

"Are you sad, Kenny?" Christopher pulls on Kenny's hair to get his attention.

Kenny cracks a smile and says, "No, I – I'm fine. Thank you for asking, Christopher."

"My name is Chris," he says in return, "Only mommy and gramma call me Christopher."

"How are you this morning, Kenny?" asks Sharon, gazing at him over the turquoise wire rims of her reading glasses.

He tries to come up with an acceptable answer that wouldn't make everything about this situation more awkward and ends up with, "I'm alright. Do you know where Stan is?" He desperately wants to be rescued from this living room. God, he hates being around his friends' moms. It used to be fun, back when he was kid, to be cheeky and flirtatious. Right now, it's embarrassing, because he thinks that Sharon knows what he does for work, and he doesn't want her to know.

There was one humiliating private party that he did once, over two years ago, now – Craig's mom had been there, and Kenny thought that he might cry from the embarrassment of her seeing him like that, even though he'd barely been acquainted with Craig and had only ever been over to his house for birthday parties.

"He went to your apartment to feed your dog, he said," Sharon responds. She checks the watch around her wrist and says, "That was over a half-hour ago. He should have been home by now."

As if on cue – and there were not enough Gods for Kenny to praise for this – the sound of the key scraping in the door echoes in the living room and Stan steps in, Kyle in tow.

Stan's brows lift under the rim of his knit hat as he takes in the scene. He says, "Uh, hi everybody. Chris, why don't you sit with your grandma – Uncle Kenny has to come with me and your Uncle Kyle."

"You're my uncle?" Christopher wiggles around in Kenny's arms to study him, as though debating whether or not his father is lying to him about this, "How come I've never met you until now?"

"Chris," says Stan in warning.

The toddler is apparently familiar with this tone of voice, because he sighs dramatically and says, "_Okay_," as though Stan is a great burden to him, and kicks his way out of Kenny's grip, dropping onto the floor so he can trek to Sharon and clamber into her lap.

Kenny is a little too hungover to try and figure out what's going on, so when Stan tells him to get his shoes on, he obeys without question. He follows Stan and Kyle to Sharon's car and climbs into the back, pulling his knees up to his chin as soon as he has buckled himself into the seat.

"Where do you suppose Cartman would be at this time of day?" Stan asks Kenny.

"What? Why?"

"We're going to have a little _chat_ with him," Kyle says, but his tone suggests that he has much more than 'chatting' in mind. For whatever reason, this revelation makes Kenny smile.

"Do you not remember last night?" queries Stan.

"Uh, sort of?" Kenny answers questioningly, because most of what he knows is that he told them the shit situation that he's found himself in, but not much of anything else. He shakes his head and replies, "I think he works during the days, now. He's probably at, uh, Polly. In his office."

"That isn't named after –" Kyle starts.

"Polly Prissypants? I think it is," Kenny makes a gagging noise as a sort of joke, but really, they all know how _fucking nuts_ Cartman can get, and naming his inherited club after a doll he owned and murder during childhood is only the tip of the iceburg.

"What the hell?" simplifies Stan, which is naturally the only accurate summary of the situation.

Kenny guides Stan to the back parking lot of Polly, but when they arrive, he hangs back, giving instructions to Cartman's office a little less confidently. He doesn't think that this was such a good idea, and wonders if Kyle and Stan have any notion of the kind of man that Cartman has become. He's huge, he's terrifying, and despite his financial crisis, he is probably still the most powerful man in South Park under Sergio.

"Kenny, are you coming?" asks Stan, when Kenny slows to a stop. He doesn't want to be here when he doesn't have to be. He hates this place.

"I want to go wait in the car," he announces.

"No, you're coming," Kyle tells him, gripping Kenny's wrist and tugging him along.

Kyle comes bursting into Cartman's office without so much as a knock – Kenny finds this dangerous. Kenny knows basically what happens behind those closed doors, and he also knows that he doesn't want to find out what other things have gone on in there besides Cartman sampling his own prostitutes and making under-the-table deals with dangerous characters.

Cartman thankfully is doing nothing more than looking over spreadsheets with Kevin Stoley hovering over his shoulder. When they burst into the room, Kyle snarls, "Out of here, Stoley." At first, Kevin glances to Cartman for confirmation that this would be okay, until Kyle shouts, "_Out_!" which makes Kevin jump and sprint out of the room like he's being chased.

"What the fuck, Jew boy? What the hell are you doing in my fucking office? Did you bring them here, Kinny? Of course you did. You're not getting out of our deal, asshole. We shook on it," he levels a glare at Kenny that would normally be terrifying, but isn't as bad with his old best friends flanking him on either side.

"I don't care what the fuck you shook on, fatass," Kyle declares, storming forward. He braces his hands on Cartman's desk and stoops to eye level before continuing, "You don't fucking do that to your friends."

"Kinny isn't my friend, you dumbshit," Cartman simpers, "He is my _employee._ If you want a go with him, he's pretty cheap."

"Hey!" That one was Stan – and he said it just before Kenny could feel embarrassed about Cartman's insult. He places a hand on Kenny's shoulder blade and guides him back, like they're preparing for a storm – and knowing Kyle, they might be.

"You fat fuck, you don't treat your 'employees' like that, either," Kyle says.

"Uh. Yes. Yes, I do," Cartman responds, folding his chubby fingers together as if he is only barely diverted by Kyle's words.

A low noise rips out of Kyle's throat, something like a growl. He slams his closed fists down on Cartman's desk and shoves away the decorative statuette of an angel on the top left corner. It breaks in two as soon as it hits the floor. The crash seems to encourage Kyle, because he leans further forward and yells more loudly, "You _dick. _You horrible fucking excuse for a human being! How could you fucking _do_ that to somebody? I swear to God, I am going to rip you apart."

"I have lawyers, Kyle, that may not be the best –"

"_My name is not 'Keeyal'_!" Kyle spits in Cartman's face, about half a second before he dives across the desk and punches Cartman square in his fat nose. He barks, "I hate you! I fucking hate you! How the fuck can you think that it's just okay to do this to somebody? Kenny's our friend, you insufferable prick, and all you care about is your fucking money. I _will_ rip you apart, because you can't afford a fucking lawyer, you broke, fat, shifty piece of fucking shit."

This is all the warning that Cartman receives before Kyle leaps onto his lap and punches him again and again in quick concession. His movements are concise and practiced, leading Kenny to believe that yoga isn't all that Kyle practices.

In between each punch, he rambles on, defending Kenny, tearing Cartman to shreds. Cartman fights back, making his armchair wobble. It topples over onto the ground, which Cartman uses to his advantage – he flips Kyle onto his back and throws his own punches.

"Oh, shit," Stan says. Neither of them had bothered moving when only Cartman was getting creamed, but now the blood of both men is flying, and Kenny hears the sound of _something_ cracking underneath the cacophony of flesh on flesh.

Kenny and Stan choose then to intervene, both seizing the back of Cartman's designer shirt and heaving him off of Kyle. Unfortunately, this only fuels Kyle's rage. As soon as Kyle is on his feet, he tears forward and latches his hands around Cartman's neck.

"Kyle," Stan protests, but he doesn't let go of Cartman, who is flailing and trying to hit either Stan or Kenny, and succeeding with neither.

"You're too fucking fat to strangle!" rages Kyle.

At the same time, Cartman gasps out, "Okay! Okay!"

All three of them let go, but none of them back down – even Kenny, who would definitely not have gone in on Cartman alone, like Kyle did. Cartman props himself up with a hand on the paneled wall, catching his breath. It takes several minutes for him to speak. When he does, he repeats, "Okay."

"Okay, _what_, fatass?" Kyle demands.

"Okay, Kinny can be free from our deal."

Kenny's ears perk up. He couldn't possibly have heard that correctly – right?

"What?" falls out of his mouth before he can stop it.

Cartman wheels around to scowl at Kenny and grinds out, "You're free, you fucking asshole. You're out. Just – just get the fuck out of here." Cartman looks terrified, actually terrified. Kenny would feel guilty, perhaps, if he was in absolute rapture over being freed from the agreement. He doesn't have to worry about it. He can – he can just tell Butters what happened, and it will all be okay. He'll smooth it over and they'll leave South Park, and he'll never have to worry about it again.

Never have to worry about it again.

Never again.

Kenny starts to laugh, because it's the only thing he can do when he's so happy. He darts forward and yanks Kyle into a hug, even though neither of them are hugging folk, almost dancing.

There's blood all over the clothes that he borrowed from Stan, now. He doesn't know whether the blood belongs to Cartman or Kyle, and he doesn't care. He just wants to fucking run to Butters and explain everything. No more fucking secrets, no. He'll start over new, starting today.

The three of them shuffle victoriously out of Cartman's office, all sticky with blood – Kyle still bleeding. Kevin Stoley's eyes widen at the sight of them, and widen even more when Kenny throws his arms around him and says, "It's all going to be okay, dude." Kenny claps Stoley on the shoulder before they parade from the building.

They pile back into Stan's mom's car, and when Kenny requests that he be dropped off at the Stotches' place, neither of them question it, and both of them smile.

The sidewalk, unlike the walk up to the Marsh house, has been shoveled neatly, and there is no sign of ice anywhere. He takes in a deep breath and grins before he knocks on the door. He waits for a beat – and nobody answers.

Disappointed, he frowns. Did he just fucking happen to appear at a time that Butters is out?

But if he was out, where the fuck would he be?

Well, fuck that. Kenny can wait on the stoop as long as it fucking takes for Butters to come back. He's worth it, that's why. He turns to sit on the porch swing, but just as he does, he hears the door creak open.

It's barely open. Butters is pale and his eyes are bloodshot. Kenny feels suddenly less optimistic and more like world's biggest prick.

"Butters, let me –"

"No," Butters says, "Let me explain somethin' to you. You'd think – you'd _think_ – that a life of having people treat you awful would teach you that you need to treat people nice. That's what it taught me, anyway. But I guess it didn't do the same for you, d-did it? You turned out just like all those people that treat you mean. Maybe you fuckin' deserve it, the way you go fuckin' around with feelings."

"Butters, I have to tell you –" Kenny starts again.

"You be quiet! I-I'm tryin' to talk here, tryin' to say my piece, but you can't even give me t-that? You didn't even have to l-love me back. I do got enough love for both of us. But you're j-just _mean. _F-Fuck off and go fuck my d-dad or something."

Butters slams the door.

Kenny bangs on it and demands that Butters open it back up. He shouts, "I'm sorry! I didn't actually mean it!" But Butters doesn't come back. He doesn't answer the door again.

Kenny keeps up, working up the biggest fuss he's made in his life. He starts to feel desperate, to feel lonely, and feels the cold hand of hopelessness clutch his heart again. Surely this must be temporary. Butters will forgive him. He has to, it's just in his nature.

But –

Maybe he wouldn't.

Maybe he wouldn't, because Kenny told Butters that that was just the kind of person he was. The kind that you could take advantage of.

And he won't ever let Kenny do it again.

Not just Kenny, but _anybody._

Kenny yells himself hoarse on the doorstep.

Somebody shouts from their window, "Just shut the fuck up!"

"I love you, too," Kenny says at the door, loud enough that Butters must be able to hear him. It makes his chest hurt to hear his own voice with that much fucking _caring_ in his voice. He cares so much. So, so fucking much, and he wishes that Butters would open the door and let Kenny make everything okay again.

He doesn't answer.

Kenny realizes that this is just how things tend to unfurl for him. Even if he's free from Cartman's deal, how is he supposed to find a job in South Park? The economy's shot, and 'round here, there's no fucking work available for miles. Who would hire _him_, anyway?

Kenny still has Sergio's target on his back, regardless of whether Cartman forces him to work or not.

That means he can't go to Karen.

He can't go back to his mom.

And now, because he was too stupid to think of a solution other than the one that Eric Cartman provided, he's lost what he had left.

His heart hurts.

His head hurts.

And he'll be back at Polly tonight, because Kenny McCormick has no place else turn.

**o.o.o.o**

**Shit! I totally forgot to thank my wonderful reviewers at the bottom when I posted this. Please forgive me - the holidays have left me completely scatterbrained. I blame it on adequate sleep. SO. Thank you, as always, to the lovely people that keep me motivated: lilykinz200, MariePierre, KirstenTheDestroyer, KeiMaxwell, Kuutamolla, Lying Honesty, mallorymichael, FlyAwayMax, Chasing Rabbits, and TheAwesome15.**

**My apologies again, and I hope you all had very happy holidays!**


	17. Killer in the Crowd

**Chapter Track: Heavy in Your Arms – Florence and the Machine**

"I knew you'd come crawling back. You desperate assholes always do."

That's what Cartman had said to Kenny when he returned to ask for his job at Polly back, a mere few hours after he'd sat on Butters' stoop. He'd sat there for a solid three hours – knocking, shouting, looking for an open window that he could wiggle through – but Butters had never emerged, and hadn't acknowledged him. Defeated, he'd walked back to his apartment, chain smoking half a pack before he arrived, legs sore from the trek. He had toyed with the idea of calling Stan and Kyle and telling them what had happened, but decided against it. They were leaving back for their respective homes in California and New York, and they wouldn't be able to help him here, no matter how hard that they tried.

The girls didn't know what had happened, not even Bebe. The only one who had the vaguest notion of what had happened between Kenny and Cartman was Kevin Stoley, and even then, Kenny doubts that the man knows the details – only that he'd helped Cartman clean up the aftermath of his fight with Kyle.

This all happened a little over two months ago. It's March, now, and Kenny feels as though he never left his work. He'd only been free for a few hours, anyway. Seeming to predict the mess that Kenny would be in, Cartman never notified Stephen Stotch that his whore wasn't working anymore, and Kenny resumed his position dutifully, without a word about what had occurred.

He's spent the past months in terrible shape. Although Esther's legs are long healed, he doesn't know if he'll ever be. Kenny spends most nights after work drinking himself into a dreamless oblivion.

He's tried – desperately, he should add – to get ahold of Butters, but when he calls Butters' cell his call directs straight to voicemail. The single time that he dared to call the Stotch household, the phone call was answered by Linda, whose voice sounded so distant that Kenny hung up before she could even ask who was calling.

He's been committing a lot of suicides.

It's not the most tasteful route, perhaps, but it does make him feel better, especially if he's had a rough night under the hand of Stephen Stotch and his body is ripped up because of it. He's running out of bullets, though, and doesn't fancy walking into the weapons shop and purchasing more. Jimbo will wonder where the others went, and Kenny obviously can't explain that he's been offing himself every three days or so.

At least when he spends time in Hell with Damien and his father, he has a few good laughs and a couple rounds of cards.

"Kenny, snap out of it," Bebe snaps her fingers in front of his face. He jumps, rubs the back of his neck, and smiles at her sheepishly. The rest of the cast onstage is staring at him, like they always do when he zones out and forgets where he is and what he's doing. It's some sort of defense mechanism, Kenny thinks, something that his mind does to him to distract him from the reality of his life.

Bebe lowers her voice so that the others won't hear what she has to say and murmurs, "Look, sweetheart, I know it's been tough. I know you miss him. But there are other fish in the sea, for fuck's sake – and if we don't make this production perfect, we'll all be dead and you won't be able to meet those other damned fish. Buck up, man."

The condition that Kenny gave Cartman upon his return to Polly was that Cartman would have to enlighten the rest of the staff of the situation at hand. His hope had been that the others would work twice as hard in order to raise as much money as they could before the showing of Bebe's play (Which was entitled 'Dame.' Kenny thinks he might be the only one that knows Bebe is referring to Notre Dame and not women). The news, once broken, had had about half of the desired effect – a few of the girls left, to go home to their parents, their boyfriends, their girlfriends, feeling safer there than a part of the effort to put off a drug dealer – but most stayed right where they were.

Like Kenny, they had no other options.

Mercedes, for example, had no family left alive, and no friends outside of South Park that she could go to. She needed the money that she made at Polly as much as Kenny needed his income – to survive.

Kenny just shakes his head sadly and says, "I fucking know that, Bebe. Lay off."

Her arched brows raise into her blonde curls, shadowed by the ostentatious feathered fedora atop her head. She asks, "Do you?"

"Yeah, I do," Kenny snips back, but he keeps his voice quiet. He doesn't need anybody else knowing about Butters, knowing about what he's done and what a fucking asshole he is.

"Alright, then," Bebe replies with a tone to her voice suggesting that she does not believe him, and she struts back to center stage. There, she claps her hands together and commands, "Okay, everybody. Circle up. We've got shit to do."

Bebe is right about that, for certain. In two days the first shows are going to be performed. Tomorrow is their dress rehearsal, complete with costumes that will leave them exposed and almost-naked. Kenny has seen some of the posters for _Dame_ up around downtown, advertising an erotic theatre experience. He isn't sure whether to be bemused or thankful when he sees them, but he thinks that he's decided on being the latter. The more people whose interest the posters pique, the more will buy tickets, the more revenue that they will generate, the less danger they will be in.

It's a simple formula, and Kenny hopes to God that it works. After this is all over, he thinks that he'll take Karen up on her offer to move in with her, at least in the couple of months that she has until she gets married and moves in with Clyde Donovan. By then, maybe he'll have a job and he can take over the lease. Or something like that. He doesn't think that jobs in Denver are exactly abundant, but he'll take what he can get.

Christ, he hopes that guy treats her right.

After their rehearsal comes to a close, Kenny and Mercedes (who is his ride back home) stop at a corner store. They both buy cigarettes, and Kenny blows a little more on lottery tickets that come to nothing when he scratches them off.

Kenny considers shooting himself tonight to get out of going to work. Stephen is supposed to show up, and even though Kenny has been more compliant than ever, he's been rougher. It's taking a toll on Kenny – in fact, it's driving him to insanity. He feels his chest drop into his feet every time that he sees the man's face, and he knows that that can't possibly be normal.

Yeah, he should probably kill himself when he gets home, and pray for a longer stay in Hell. He can never say how long that he's been gone from Earth because time can't be measured in Hell – and even if it could, it wouldn't be in sync with what's on Earth. The record time that he's been gone in Earth time is a year. In Hell, it felt like a week.

Before she'll unlock her car, Mercedes makes Kenny shell out the ten dollars of gas money that he promises to her for every ride to the theatre that she gives him. The price is a little steep, he feels, but Kenny opts not to complain.

Once they're on the highway, Mercedes and Kenny fall silent. They both take out a cigarette. Kenny lights hers before he lights his – the last thing that he wants her to do is shuffle around and try to light it herself. They'd crash, and he'd end up dead for sure. Lately, Kenny has been opposed to dying in any way that is not on his own terms.

In his pocket, Kenny's phone rings. He's almost inclined to ignore it, but Karen has been promising a longer phone call one of these days, and so he pulls it out.

The name flashing on the screen is 'Butters.'

Kenny's heart skips a beat. He turns off the radio, ignoring Mercedes' protests, and flips the fucker open. He can't speak, at first. He wonders if he should repeat his confession of love that he made months ago, or maybe if he should say something profound.

Instead, Kenny answers, "…Hello?"

Nobody speaks for a long moment, and Kenny wonders if he's just been ass-dialed, with a sweep of disappointment through his gut.

"_Hey, Ken_?" Butters finally says on the other end, "_I…um, I just wanted to make certain that you're okay._"

"Yeah!" Kenny says a little too enthusiastically, "I'm fine. I'm good. Actually, I'm even better now that –"

"_O-Okay. I was just making sure. I've been havin' bad dreams, still. I'll see you later._"

"Baby, wait –"

But Butters hangs up, leaving the car awkwardly silent. Kenny sighs to himself and slides his cellphone back into the pocket of his jeans. Kenny switches the radio back on and looks out of the window to avoid having a conversation about what just happened.

Evidently, Mercedes is not on the same wavelength as Kenny. She fiddles with the volume of the radio, turning it down low, and questions, "'Baby'?"

"Drop it," Kenny warns.

"But –"

"No," he states.

The rest of the ride back into the mountains is mostly silent, though scattered with small talk (Mercedes is a talker. At least, she feels the need to fill silence with something, often her own voice. Thankfully, during this particular car ride, she utilizes the radio for background noise for the most part. She seems to understand that Kenny is in no mood for chatter, and would rather sulk and watch the mountains fly by them).

When Kenny arrives back at his apartment, he cracks open a beer and tries calling Butters back – the call, as all of Kenny's previous calls have, goes straight to voicemail. Kenny hangs up instead of leaving a message, though he doesn't think that Butters would listen to a message from him, anyway.

He's concerned about Butters' dreams. Before Kenny fucked everything up, he had said that he'd been having them consistently (typically accompanied by headaches), each dream a sequence of Kenny's death, even if Butters wasn't present to see him die in that way. If he's still been seeing them as vividly as he had been before, he must be seeing each and every one of Kenny's suicides.

There have been a hell of a lot of those in the past couple of months. Kenny doesn't like the idea of Butters seeing them. It makes him feel a little sick to his stomach. The only person that's supposed to see every one of Kenny's deaths is Kenny. Only he's supposed to know. It's his own private burden. Butters dreaming about each and every death is one short step away from knowing of Kenny's immortality in its entirety.

In a way, Butters is remembering the deaths. Yes, he remembers them as dreams – but he knows the details. They're actually in his mind.

After calling Butters' cellphone a second time and being met by his voicemail for what felt like the millionth time, Kenny gives up. His most convenient option for tonight, of course, would be to kill himself. But, for Butters, he decides not to. It feels wrong to place even a little of the burden of Kenny's deaths on another's shoulders, especially if those shoulders belong to one Butters Stotch.

**o.o.o.o**

"Can we stop for coffee?" Kenny finds himself asking, two days later. It's too early for him, really. It's not even ten o'clock in the morning, and he didn't come home from work until four in the morning. Unfortunately, they're required to be in Denver at the theatre by half-past noon for a grueling round of rehearsals of _Dame_ before tonight's opening. At least they're done with costume fittings – if Kenny has one more designer get near his dick, he think that he might scream.

Mercedes sounds relieved as she speaks, "Oh, thank God. I was hoping you'd give me an excuse to stop for a latte."

They roll down the street and pull into the tiny lot beside Tweak Bros. It's fairly bustling for a late morning on a Friday. Don't people work around this time, or something?

"Hey Kenny! Hi Mercedes!" Tweek exclaims. He's noticeably louder than usual. Kenny feels his brows lift up.

"Hey, dude," Kenny greets, as Tweek punches in their orders.

"It's on the house today," hums Tweek.

"You're abnormally cheerful," remarks Kenny. Tweek is…glowing. Not literally, of course, but he has an air about him of enjoying one of the best days of his life, nothing like the typical aura of desperation and loneliness that seems to surround him. He's still the same Tweek – at least, Kenny thinks so. There are still neon Band-Aids wrapped around most of Tweek's fingers, his hair is still frazzled and half-upright.

But he's also grinning like a child on Christmas morning.

"Okay, okay. Jesus, man, I'll tell you," Tweek responds hurriedly, as though Kenny has coerced him into explaining the reason for his overt happiness. Tweek continues to talk as he starts on their drinks and says, "Guess who called me yesterday."

"The CIA?"

"You're an asshole," expressed Tweek, "And no. Craig did."

Mercedes pipes in, "Oh, good for you, sweetie."

Kenny cuts her off with a short glare and manages, "What?" He'd been entirely convinced that Craig motherfucking Tucker was done with all of him the moment that he'd left town. He'd always hated it here. He'd told Kenny as much over many cigarettes that he loathed every bit of it, from Kenny himself, to the snow in the winter and the wildflowers in the summer, to the shitty roads – everything. The dude didn't keep a Facebook, either, so it seemed like he had washed his hands of his childhood and had begun enjoying bigger and better things than the rest of them.

Tweek sets Mercede's latte on the counter and chirrups, "Yup. He's coming to Denver for Clyde and your sister's wedding."

"What?" repeats Kenny. How is he always the last to know things? How is that Craig Tucker is attending his own baby sister's fucking wedding, and he isn't even in on it until _Tweek Tweak _tells him? Tweek is a great guy, but he's not exactly on top of the trending topics of today. He's always been a little behind, a little otherworldly, a little out of things that everybody's in on.

"I get to see him," Tweek says, sounding more than severely infatuated.

When Tweek sets Kenny's Americano on the counter, Kenny snatches it up and says, "Well, we've gotta go. Important shit, you see."

"But I wanna know the details," protests Mercedes, but Kenny seizes her by her Walmart junior's section scarf and tugs her out of the coffee shop, toward her car.

Mercedes complains about Kenny now allowing her to gossip until they're out of the perimeters of South Park, at which point Kenny decides that he'd rather hear anything else, and thus cranks up the radio.

Two and a half miserable hours later, Kenny and Mercedes arrive at the theatre, at which point they are shoved into the tiny area for costumes and makeup. This would probably be awkward if they were pure actors, Kenny thinks, since they're all essentially naked together, and he's the only guy around.

His costume is one of the more awful concoctions of Cartman's brain. It's…strappy. And uncomfortable. It's too small to wear with underwear, and being leather, chaffs the shit out of his balls. His poor, miserable balls. In any case, he has to have Bebe help him with it. Due to the strappy nature of the thing, his costume is somewhat of a deathtrap if improperly placed on his body. It is easily the most ugly, slutty thing that he has ever been made to wear in his life – and Kenny has worn a number of slutty garments.

The only halfway decent event during the day is when Kevin arrives bearing boxes of pizza for the entire staff, since they're not supposed to change out of the costumes until the night is over, and Kenny doesn't exactly want to be seen in Slutty Leather Deathtrap #1. Even then, when Kenny makes to take a bite out of his third slice of pepperoni heaven, Cartman snatches the pizza from him and tells Kenny that he "doesn't want him looking chubby on stage."

And then…

It's almost time for curtain. The whole day flew by with the haze and confusion of preparations and last minutes changes, swaps and practices. The only thing that Kenny was even vaguely aware of throughout the entire experience was the fucking leather on his balls, which has only become worse the more that he's sweated throughout the afternoon.

Kenny peeks over the edge of the curtain looking out at the crowd that they've garnered. People are still filling in seats, chatting animatedly amongst themselves. He frowns. There aren't as much as all of them – Cartman, Kenny, and the rest of the Polly crew – had hoped to see on opening night. Nobody is sitting in the high sections except for a scattered few, and the lower sections are only full in the front.

Bebe looks over his shoulders and sucks in a breath. She says, "Shit," succinctly, and claps a hand on Kenny's right shoulder blade. He elbows her off and glares.

"There will be more, right?" Kenny finds himself asking. He sounds naïve. He and Bebe both know the answer.

She replies anyway, "We've only got ten minutes until the doors close, sweetheart."

"Fuck," he mutters.

And then –

He spots something much worse than a sparse crowd.

"Jesus Christ," tears out of Kenny's throat before he can will it not to.

Slightly off-center in the second row sits Butters. He's between a nerdy-looking, bespectacled couple, and a quartet of old biddies giggling behind their cheaply printed programs. He looks fucking good. He's run a comb through his hair and is wearing a tucked-in button up, like he's attending Sunday school. He's blushing like he isn't supposed to be here, and already he is twisting the program in his fists.

Kenny doesn't want Butters to see him like this.

Usually Kenny likes the acting that the Polly crew does, but at the moment, he's clothed in this awful strappy number, balls sweating something awful. He's at his lowest fucking point, here. He doesn't need somebody he fucking respects sitting in on it and watching. The only thing that could be worse than this is if Kyle and Stan and Wendy all came to watch it, too. Kenny silently thanks anybody listening that the three of them live out of state and aren't here to see him like this. Stan and Kyle would be pissed that he went back to Cartman as it is. Last time he spoke to Stan over the phone, he promised that he was working a job at the convenience store and was still just fine, good, happy – like he was when Stan and Kyle left Colorado after Christmas.

Kenny sucks in a ribcage-rattling breath and withdraws himself from the scene, pressing his mostly-naked back against the cold wall.

"Stage fright?" Bebe questions, sticking her nose out in front of the curtain, as though looking for what possible reason Kenny could have for being unceremoniously nervous – it wasn't the volume of the crowd, that was for certain. After a few seconds, she spots the source of his panic, alerting Kenny of her discovery with a plain, "Oh, _balls_."

Bebe turns back to him. She doesn't touch him, but she does look him straight in the eye. She says, "Don't give that boy the time of day. He's not worth it."

"He is worth it, and that's the problem," argues Kenny, "He's just out of my league, and he figured that out." Out of a combination of embarrassment and self-preservation, Kenny did not relay the details of his split with Butters to Bebe. He's certain that if she knew, he would lose an ally to Butters, who she would militantly support. Who wouldn't support Butters?

"Butters? Out of _your_ league?" Bebe quirks a brow, "Honey, have you ever looked in a mirror? You're hot shit."

"It's not about looks, Bebe," Kenny whispers back. He runs a hand through his hair, panic clogging up his throat and making it hard to breathe. He needs to – needs to take a walk or something, get outside and have a cigarette, but it's too late. He's not due for a couple of scenes, but he knows that Cartman has muscle posted at the doors, just in case somebody tries to bolt, and bolting sounds pretty fucking fantastic at the moment.

"Fuck. This is serious, isn't it? God, you look like you're about to vomit. Here, let me get a bucket or something," Bebe turns and searches for anything that Kenny could use as a basin for the contents of his stomach. He feels like he's about to barf up a lung. Bebe sets a forgotten paint can left behind by one of the set-painting techies and says, "Okay, um. We have two scenes for you to get your shit together, sweetheart."

"I can't go out there," Kenny insists.

"You have to go out there," Bebe responds, "There isn't a Plan B, honey."

"Why is he here?" moans Kenny, putting his face in hands.

"Don't do that!" Bebe smacks his hands back, "You'll ruin your stage makeup, you fucking idiot. Look, you have to do this. Why don't you go to the prop room and smoke a cigarette? I'd join you, but I have to introduce the production with the fatass."

"Yeah," Kenny nods dumbly, "Yeah, that sounds like a good idea." He doesn't say anything further, just heaves himself up (much to the distress of his chaffing balls) and stalks to the green room, where his coat is, pack of cigarettes stuffed into the pocket.

Once he has retrieved his cigarette smoking paraphernalia, Kenny retreats to the safety of the prop room, which is freezing fucking cold. The room itself is structured much like a garage, with smooth cement floors and unfinished-looking, thin walls. He cups his hands to light his cigarette and sucks in, feeling anxious and like he wants to cry.

Crying would be counterproductive to his cause, Kenny realizes, because he he'd fuck up his stage makeup. The shit would be just ruined enough to look bad, despite its industrial strength and the lengths one must go to in order to remove it from one's face.

Kenny paces while he smokes, taking in upset, frantic drags. Why the hell is Butters here? How does he even know about it? Kenny supposes that they read the script together before everything went to shit. Butters even helped Kenny start learning his lines – which usually ended in a bout of sex, due to the content of the dialogue between characters. It's unabashedly raunchy, and if Kenny's nuts weren't sweating in an itchy leather dick-snare, he'd be more inclined to appreciate the nature of it.

This is it.

Butters will be seeing him at one of his lowest moments.

But then, Butters has already had to hear Kenny fucking his father, so maybe this shouldn't be affecting Kenny as much as it is.

But back then – God, how could it only have been months ago? – back then, he didn't know Butters like he knew him now. Then, Butters had still been the same happy-go-lucky melvin that Kenny had known in high school, the only difference being that he'd aged ten years. He'd been wearing a lame-ass snowflake scarf and a goofy grin, and Kenny had known nothing of what sat beyond that. There were the scars on his skin, yes, but now knows that there is so much more than just that. It's what lies beyond Butters ribcage. It's what makes the man that weird, romantic-minded son of a bitch that _cares._

Holy _shit._

Is Butters here because he still gives a damn about Kenny?

He still cares.

_He still cares. _

Kenny can't decide whether to be confused or gleeful, so he crushes his cigarette underneath his slightly heeled boots and opts to be both.

When he returns to his place to the side of stage, Bebe and Cartman are speaking – mostly Cartman, really, while Bebe looks totally bangable in her red dress (If she'd had it her way, she would have gone in trousers and a collared shirt as usual, but Cartman commanded a dress. Evidently even he is not impervious to Bebe's fabulous rack). The girls have congregated, too – Mercedes, in her infinitely more comfortable-looking sheer pink costume; Sally, in the female version of Slutty Leather Deathtrap #1. She looks equally as ill at ease as Kenny is, though also like she is trying to pretend like she's fine. Sally is more determined to do a good job at this performance than anybody in their motley troupe.

When the curtains are parted, the initial reaction from their meager audience is a rumble of hushed, embarrassed giggles – not a good sign, Kenny thinks, and he hopes that they'll overcome the need to laugh at the costumes before it's time for him to come onstage. Logically and against his own wishes, Kenny figures that seeing a male costume just as bad as the others, if not worse, will probably incite many more giggles.

This isn't looking good for them.

And worse, Butters is here.

Maybe one day, a long time from now, Kenny will look back on this moment and laugh. Or at least, that's what he'd like to think he'll do. Still, he always hopes that he'll be able to laugh later at embarrassing events. Alas, by the bulk of them, Kenny is still embarrassed.

"Kenny, it's almost time for you to go on," whispers one of the girls. He can't tell which girl from his position. Backstage, it's too dark.

Kenny pulls himself forward, and on his cue, he enters onstage. For a few lines, he's only supposed to be a sort of a decoration, pretending to busy doing other shit on the side of the stage while Mercedes and Sally are speaking together.

As soon as Kenny turns to speak his line, all hell breaks loose.

He hears a bang, and Kenny's first instinct is to believe that he's dead, that something has fallen on him and he's been crushed, even though he's standing upright and unharmed. He pats himself down and feels nothing wrong. But the audience is shrieking. Mercedes and Sally scramble off to the side of the stage. The lights shining onto the stage make it too hard to see the audience. He isn't sure what has happened until he hears a familiar voice, "Kenny McCormick, get down, you stupid son of a bitch!" It's Butters – Butters is yelling at him.

Immediately after Butters' shout, there's another bang. A bullet – a fucking _bullet_ – goes whizzing past Kenny's head, lodging itself into the painted flat behind him.

Holy shit, it _missed _him. Kenny can't remember if there's ever been a time when guns were out that bullet fucking missed him.

"I'm alive," he murmurs.

"Kenny, what are you fucking doing just standing there?" that demand comes from the side of the stage. Kenny looks over and sees Bebe, her eyes wide with fear.

He can see the audience spreading out, running for the doors. Kenny squints and tries to figure what the fuck is going on, but has no time to –

There are more bangs.

More cracks.

More bullets.

More than one shooter.

What the fuck are they doing here? Surely it can't be Sergio and his guys –

A figure surges up onto the stage and tackles Kenny to the ground. The both fall in a heap behind the prop couch. When Kenny regains his wits, he sees that it's Butters that's above him, formerly neatly tucked-in button-up now untucked and not even a little neat. In his right hand is a gun.

"Butters, did you try to _shoot me_?" Kenny gasps. There goes his theory on Butters still caring about him. The man must be fucking crazy. He's following in his psycho parents' footsteps, what else?

"No, y'idiot," Butters quips back, "I'm tryin' to keep you from _getting_ shot."

"Then why are you holding a fucking gun?" Kenny hoarsely shots.

There are more bangs, and more screams. Somebody's been shot – it feels like death, and Kenny's suspicions are confirmed when a man's shout echoes, "Somebody call nine-one-one!"

"C'mon, let's get out of here," Butters says. He lifts up off of Kenny and peers over the edge of the sofa. His face drops, and he curses, "Ah, fuck."

"What? What's going on? You still haven't fucking explained the gun – who the hell packs heat when they go to the theatre?" Kenny demands, his voice coming out rushed. God, he wants to tug Butters back on top of him and hold him there forever, and Kenny knows very well that that shouldn't be his primary instinct when bullets are fucking flying.

"It's those guys from your apartment," Butters says, "Except there are lots more of 'em." He scrambles up, yanking Kenny to his feet with him. Butters tries to tug Kenny backstage again, but their path is blocked by a muscular man holding a gun much bigger than the small one in Butters' clutch.

"Ah, hamburgers," Butters expresses. Just like back in Kenny's apartment, he holds a protective arm out in front of Kenny.

"Back down, man," warns the huge man in their path, presumably speaking to Butters, since Kenny is about as helpless as one can get in a situation like this. What is this, even? They're getting Sergio's money. Their payment would still be on time if they managed to get it to Sergio by the end of the weekend. What the hell are these guys playing at?

Like a reflex, Kenny reaches out and grabs onto Butters' waist. He feels stupid hiding behind Butters, but Butters has a gun, and seems a lot more than Kenny at the moment.

Kenny turns his head, only to see that he and Butters are surrounded. There are more men, more guns, and in the center of it all is bald-headed Sergio. He narrows his eyes when he catches Kenny's gaze and says, "We won't hesitate to kill him."

All guns turn to Butters. They start closing in, taking small steps forward. Clearly, Kenny is the one that they want, but why the fuck would he want him? Cartman doesn't give a shit about Kenny, and Kenny's own debt is paid. He doesn't have fucking anything to do with this. Why do people keep treating him like he does?

"Well, shit," Butters says, "I've been in worse places than this one. Don't you worry, darlin', we'll get out of here."

"What the fuck do you want?" Kenny asks, ignoring the rush of warmth that being called 'darling' again gives him.

"You," Sergio says, "We just want _you. _If you come with us, we won't have to shoot your –" he sweeps a hand over Butters, clearly unsure of what to call him.

"Boyfriend," Butters states firmly, "I'm his boyfriend." Kenny would be more touched by this claim if there weren't six different guns pointed at their heads. Still, he clutches Butters just a little closer. He smells like that same lemony soap, just like Kenny loves. He wishes he could kiss Butters right now, but he feels a little safer with their lips disconnected.

Sergio lifts a brow at this, but before he can speak, Kenny interjects, "What the fuck do you want _me_ for, you stupid prick?"

"Sorry, I don't have time to chat with a whore," Sergio waves Kenny off and motions to his men. The sound of guns being cocked click around the circle, and he continues to speak, "Come with us, or we shoot your lover."

"Boyfriend," Kenny says pointedly, and he realizes the only reason he feels able to be candid with this man is because he's standing behind Butters.

"I don't give a shit what you call him!" Sergio snaps. His face reddens, starting at the base of his throat, up to his ears. The veins in his neck stand out and his jaw clenches as he swallows.

Kenny frowns, and after a second, he finds his body moving of its own accord out from behind Butters. He nods dumbly and mutters, "Okay," because even if he dies, he'll just wake back up in South Park. He doesn't know what use there'd be in torture or fucking around with Kenny, but then, Sergio has never occurred to him as a kind man.

Kenny doesn't know what's happening, but he does know that he'd rather endure any amount of pain if it meant that Butters would be out of harm's way. If everybody he loves is safe, then he's as happy as he can be.

"Ken, what're you doing? We can get out of this," protests Butters. When Kenny takes a step toward Sergio, Butters seizes Kenny's hand and pulls him back.

Kenny gives Butters a half-smile and says, "If I go, nobody will have to get hurt."

"_You_ could get hurt!" Butters cries indignantly.

"I'll be fine," Kenny says, without being able to know the truth of his own words. He gives Butters a reassuring smile despite feeling less than reassured himself, and squeezes Butters' hand a final time before dropping it. It falls to Butters' side like dead weight.

But Butters doesn't take that. He yanks Kenny backwards, so that his back is pressed against Butters' chest. He whispers harshly in Kenny's ear, "I can't let you do this, darlin'."

Kenny struggles against him and says, "Don't be stupid, baby. You're gonna get yourself killed."

Sergio and his men are not interested in Kenny and Butters' argument. Their prize is merely Kenny, and so when the descend upon the pair like hungry wolves, clocking Butters on the head with the butt of an enormous firearm, and tear Kenny away from him when he slumps onto the stage, it isn't a surprise.

Kenny swears, jerking out of the grip of one of Sergio's lackeys and yells behind him toward where he thinks the girls and Bebe are hiding, "Somebody help Butters!" before both his arms are seized by two skinny but terrifying men, and he's dragged out less voluntarily than he'd intended.

It's only as Sergio and his men march Kenny outside to their van that Kenny realizes that he should have told Butters that he loves him.

They secure Kenny's arms behind his back with a belt, and before Kenny can even ask if this is really all necessary, there's a bag over his head and he's being unceremoniously dumped into the back of the van. If he'd thought that he was uncomfortably under hot stage lights in Slutty Leather Deathtrap #1, then this is sheer hell, being that he is still wearing the deathtrap and nothing else, is tied up in the back of a drug dealer's van with a bag over his face and is freezing fucking cold.

They drive for ages. Kenny gives up on trying to keep track of time when he starts to itch and sweat again, and instead wiggles around and tries to make himself more comfortable, a feat almost impossible given the obstacles dealt to him. It's only when he's whacked on the side of the head and told to "quit moving the fuck around" that he just passes out, relinquishing all hope of knowing where he is and being able to relay that location to any potential rescuers (preferably of the blond, stuttering variety).

Kenny doesn't know how much longer it has been when he's jolted to consciousness. His arms are still wrapped together behind his back, but he's sitting upright now, in what feels like a wooden kitchen chair. The bag is still over his face.

Unease seeps into him. He didn't think that this would be a fun venture, but he doesn't understand why he's so fucking important. He's just a whore – isn't that what Sergio told him?

Kenny clears his throat. He doesn't speak, he just makes the noise in order to hear if there's anybody around him. He can hear a television. He doesn't know what they're watching, but sounds like your basic, formulaic sitcom if the laugh track is any indication.

Nobody indicates that they've heard him, so Kenny ventures, "Hey, assholes? Could I change into some normal fucking clothes?"

Kenny hears a muffled, "Shit, he's awake," and then a crisper, "Go get the boss."

There's a flurry of heavy footsteps, of boots on concrete. The television is flipped off – Kenny supposes that these lackeys were supposed to be watching him or some shit. A second passes and the steps return. The bag is torn off of Kenny's head. He breathes in a breath of what he expects to be fresh air, but in reality, is a dose of a disgusting aroma – a combination of asbestos and cheap cologne.

Kenny has been here before. It's a half-rotted, abandoned factory, firmly planted in The Middle of Nowhere, Colorado. Sergio's main operation functions here, he imagines, though he's always been killed before being able to explore the possibility. He doesn't know what used to be made here before it was ditched, and nor has he ever cared to research it – all Kenny knows is that he fucking _loathes_ this place. It's a concrete beats that reeks of too many of Kenny's own deaths. It forces him to remember a Kenny too drugged-out and delirious to remember how he was there or why he was be beaten by men with metal baseball bats.

They'd thought it was funny.

The courage is sucked out of him the instant that Sergio appears. He swallows the lump in his throat and sinks lower into the kitchen chair that he's attached to.

Christ, there are bloodstains on the concrete. Some of those are probably Kenny's own blood, which these people don't even fucking remember.

As Sergio steps forward, Kenny closes his eyes as though preparing for impact.

Sergio laughs. It isn't maniacal laughter, like you're taught as a child is the sound of a villain laughing – at least if you watch as many cartoons as Kenny did. His laughter is genuinely mirthful, and that makes it much, much worse when it sinks into Kenny's head. Sergio is laughing because Kenny is tied down, helpless, wearing next to nothing, with no kith or kin to come to his rescue. He's trapped.

He shouldn't feel as terrified as he does. He fucking volunteered for this. He volunteered to do this. For Karen. For his mama. For the girls. For Butters.

God, he hopes that Butters is okay.

Kenny realizes that of course Butters is okay. The man can handle himself.

"You look like a child that's wet the bed," guffaws Sergio.

Kenny wishes that he could come up with a clever quip, but he can't think of one, and so remains silent. Butters could have come up with something – but Butters isn't here. He's probably on his way home, worried sick about Kenny.

When Sergio's laughter dies down into chuckles, Kenny asks, "What do you what me for? You said it yourself. I'm just a whore. I don't have any value to you."

"You do," Sergio says, "to your boss."

"To Cartman?" Kenny echoes, astounded, "What? No I don't."

"We'll see," Sergio responds. From the pocket of his perfectly creased trousers, he removes his cellphone, a thin, slick piece of technology that Kenny couldn't afford even if he was inclined to desire it. He dials a number and lets the phone ring on speaker.

"_What the fuck was that, you stupid asshole_?" demands the voice on the other line – Cartman.

"You would think that you'd be more inclined to be polite to me, considering what I have of yours," Sergio drawls.

"_What, Kinny_? _I don't give a shit about him. Surely, he must have told you._"

"I tried," contributes Kenny.

Sergio glances between Kenny and the phone. With little more than a frustrated growl low in his throat, he throws the cellphone against the wall. It breaks on impact, falling to the factory floor in a few shards of broken technology. It hurts Kenny a little to see that money going to waste, but then, who's to say that Sergio acquired the phone with money?

Sergio stands there panting for several long seconds before he snaps his fingers at one of his men, the shortest of the lot. He looks stricken when his boss snaps at him, but digs around in the pocket of his dirty cargo pants, passing a much less technologically forward cellphone. Sergio flips it open and asks, "What is the number of your lover, whore?"

It takes a moment for Kenny to register that he's being spoken to. When he does, he responds, disbelieving, "Butters? He's poor as shit." Kenny realizes then that he has no notion of how wealthy Butters is, just that he was able to blow upwards of two grand on a guitar for his boyfriend.

"Not if his lover's life is at stake," Sergio states crisply.

"Boyfriend," corrects Kenny, irritated.

"Boyfriend, lover – they're the same fucking thing. Give me his number, slut, or I will make you give it to me," Sergio responds.

Kenny's heart races just a little faster at the threat. He frowns and weighs his options. There can't be any real harm in giving Sergio Butters' phone number, is there? He can't do anything with the cell number but call the cell. Right? God, Kenny has no idea what this man is capable of.

But if Sergio talks to Butters on speakerphone, Kenny could hear Butters' voice, and Butters could hear Kenny.

And with that, Kenny is convinced to relay the telephone number to Sergio. He dials it into his lackey's phone and lets it ring. Butters picks up after the phone rings twice. _Please sound brave, baby, _Kenny silently prays.

"_H-Hello_?" Butters says on the line. He sounds tired and frightened, and nothing like the gun-slinging hero voice that he'd been hoping for.

Sergio chuckles (Kenny presumes at Butters' stammer, which makes him want to get out of the fucking chair just to punch the guy in the mouth), and greets, "I have your lover here."

"Boyfriend," says Kenny.

"_Ken! Ken? Talk to me,_" Butters says.

Kenny smiles, "I'm here, baby."

"Shut the fuck up, both of you," bites out Sergio, "I am going to kill the whore if you do not have two million to me in three hours."

"I'll be fine," chips in Kenny.

"_Fine? He's threatening to kill you!_" Butters' stutter has vanished, and instead of sounding panicked, Butters actually sounds _pissed. _He goes on, "_I'll have your fucking money, mister, you can count on it. Just tell me where I need to be._"

Sergio leaves for this, as if it would matter if Kenny knew where he is. When he returns, he tosses the cellphone back at its owner and vanishes a second time. Kenny doesn't know what to think. He'd thought for sure that Sergio would stick around, even if just to mock Kenny. They'd liked doing that when he was brought here high off of his ass. They'd liked making fun of him, teasing him, turning his trips bad and making fun of him when he'd try to run. It was always when he tried to run that everything would go to shit. They'd strap him down in a chair just like this one, making him hurt just to laugh.

None of them did, now. The lackeys retreated back to their space on a torn-up maroon couch in front of an older, box-like television. When they turn it on, the channel is on a rerun of _Whitney_. Kenny expects them to change it, but they don't.

From there, it's a waiting game. Kenny is sitting in a puddle of cold sweat, still encased in leather and attached to a chair – a boring chair, he should mention. It doesn't even have any wiggle to it. It's a stable, uncomfortable piece of shit, and he has no way of amusing himself other than watching Sergio's men watch a terrible sitcom. There isn't a clock to look at, and so the second pass as fast as fucking sludge.

He only knows that things aren't going well when the men turn off the television and disappear in the direction in which Sergio stalked off.

"Well, my whore…"

Kenny glances up from his boots sharply. Sergio's arms are folded over his chest, and his men are following him like puppies. He goes on, "Your _boyfriend_ is tardy. It appears that my men are in need amusement while we wait. Smith – you may have your turn first."

The biggest of the lot of men steps out from behind Sergio. Oh, shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. Kenny doesn't like this. Oh, fuck. _Please get here soon, baby. _

_Please._

If Butters doesn't get here soon, he might not find Kenny alive. He might find Kenny's tortured corpse, probably dismembered and put on display just to blow apart the heart of anybody that ever came into the factory again. Kenny had watched these men do it before – cut his body into pieces, hang it up on the wall – they may enjoy watching sitcoms, but that doesn't make these men any less evil than the ones that he knew when he was high.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he cries, before he can stop himself.

"Do I need a reason?" queries Sergio, and no, a man like Sergio does not need an explanation for what he does. He's cruel, pure and simple.

But before they can use Kenny for laughs like they used to, somebody bursts into the room. They're too quick for Kenny to be able to see them, just a flash of human before they leap onto the back of the big man – Smith, apparently.

"Tweek, you idiot!" Kenny hears. Holy shit. That's…Bebe's voice.

And that means that the person that leapt onto Smith is Tweek Tweak. He's fucking strangling the man and growling at him like an animal. Kenny shouts, "Tweek, watch out, you dumbshit!" when the guns come out of holsters and waistbands, looking for the source of the voice and pointing at Tweek.

Tweek doesn't get off of Smith. Instead, he wields a knife, a fucking kitchen knife, and slashes it across Smith's throat. Tweek jumps down off of the man before he collapses onto the ground, sputtering blood and clutching at his throat.

"Holy shit!" exclaims Kenny.

Before Tweek can be shot, there are shots from behind the men. Two of them collapse, leaving just enough space for Kenny to see –

_Bebe and Butters. _

They're both holding guns of their own. God only knows how they got their hands on firearms, but he'd damned glad that they did. Tweek dips behind Kenny as shots begin to fire from both sides.

Oh, for fuck's sake. Kenny tries to scoot back, but Tweek makes a noise of protest. He's undoing the bindings around Kenny's arms.

Once freed, Kenny throws himself onto his feet, perhaps a little too fast. The blood rushes in his ears, and sways a little before holding onto the nearest stationary object, which happens to be Tweek.

"Jesus, man," Tweek vibrates, "I brought a knife to a gun fight!" He half sobs and shivers behind Kenny.

Butters finally comes out from behind the cover of the door frame. He moves like a trained warrior, which Kenny supposes he is. He makes quick work of the remaining lackeys, leaving them in a pile of each other on the floor of the factory.

Then Sergio lifts his own smaller, sleeker firearm, and points it directly at Butters' forehead. Kenny screams for Butters to watch out, but before Kenny can even register what his own body is doing, he's throwing Tweek off of him and sprinting forward. He leaps over the bodies on the ground and dives in front of Butters, pushing him back.

Pushing him back, just in time to be hit in the chest with the bullet meant for Butters Stotch.

A moment after, Butters puts a bullet in the center of Sergio's forehead.

Kenny and his ex-drug dealer fall to their knees in almost perfect synchronization.

"Kenny!" cries Butters.

They're the only ones standing – Kenny's allies. Bebe and Tweek rush forward as Butters drops his gun and collects Kenny into his arms. He shouts at the others, "W-We gotta get him to Hell's Pass. F-Fuck."

He's being carried out of there. Butters is running. Tweek and Bebe are mere steps behind him. They're darting through an empty hallway, each footfall echoing throughout the empty place.

Outside, there's a car waiting. It's Linda Stotch's car, and Kevin Stoley is sitting in the driver's seat, knuckles white with panic and clutching the steering wheel like a castaway to a piece of driftwood. Bebe leaps into the passenger's side as Tweek and Butters pile into the back, making a collective effort to be gentler with Kenny than they're being with themselves.

"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," Tweek whines, "That's a lot of blood. Oh Christ man, he's bleeding everywhere! What the fuck do we do?"

"Holy shit," Kevin half-shrieks.

"Just drive us to the hospital, you dumb fucking asshole," Bebe commands.

Butters is trying to slow the flow of the blood with his shirt. It's not going to work. Kenny can feel himself fading. He cuddles his head against Butters' chest and grins deliriously. He says, "This is the perfect place to die."

"D-Don't talk like that," Butters snips back, "You're g-gonna be fine. We're t-taking you to the hospital. They'll f-fix you up, d-darlin'."

Kenny ignores him. He's about a breath away from dying. He doesn't know why it's actually taking so fucking long, but he supposes he can take advantage of it. He whispers, "I love you, baby."

Butters starts to cry in earnest, then, and blubbers in response, "I love you, too. You're gonna be fine, just fine." He doesn't sound like he's trying to convince Kenny, though. He sounds as though he is trying to convince himself of it.

"There's so much blood," sobs Tweek.

"We know that, Tweek," Bebe snaps.

Kenny mumbles, "Shut up. I'm trying to die, here."

"W-Why would you s-say something like that?" Butters asks.

"Because I'm gonna die, baby. Don't you…worry. I'll be…fine," he forces out. It's becoming harder to speak the more that he bleeds, and it hurts. Fuck, it hurts. Sometimes he forgets what it's like to have a slower, more painful death.

But dying in Butters' arms will be the best place that he has ever died.

"If y-you're dead, you ain't fuckin' f-fine!" Butters wipes his face, smearing a long strip of Kenny's blood across his cheek.

Kenny's vision is fading fast. He'll pass out before he dies.

"D-Don't go," Butters says.

"I…love you," he repeats. He needs to make sure that Butters knows that, even if he'll forget that Kenny ever said it.

And it's with those three words that Kenny's world fades to black.

He dies in Butters' arms only three minutes later.

**o.o.o.o**

**Only one more chapter after this!**

**Thank you to my awesome reviewers, you guys rock my world: MariePierre, sadpeople56, lilykinz200, mallorymichael, namelessJane, RaiineDays, KirstenTheDestroyer, KeiMaxwell, Lying Honesty, TheAwesome15, Kuutamolla, Chasing Rabbits, and Mysterion (best anon review name ever, dude).**

**A special thank you to sadpeople56, who drew me beautiful art. **


	18. Fin: Beyond Your Wildest Dreams

**Ending Credits: How It Ends – DeVotchka**

Kenny feels especially ill when he slams back into his body. He lays flat on his back and feels like a combination of wanting to die again, and feeling like he's walking on air. Everything is okay with Butters. He's okay. Sergio is dead. _He is okay. _

Kenny hasn't been okay in such a long time that the sensation of everything fitting into a relatively comfortable place in his life is overwhelming. Even though he's still dizzy in this new body, he lies back on his pillow and lets out a long, happy laugh.

He is okay.

Before Kenny has time to revel in this new experience, however, his bedroom door bursts open. It isn't anybody he expects it to be – no, instead, it's Kevin Stoley. The guy looks healthier than Kenny ever remembers seeing him. There are no shadows under his eyes, and he looks as though he's put on some much-needed weight. Under his arm, he is holding a half-filled bag of dog food.

"Stoley?" Kenny squeezes out, still too nauseated to make much sense.

"You're back," Kevin marvels, his voice awestruck, "You've been – oh my God. Where have you been? When did you get back home? Holy shit."

"Why are you holding dog food?" Kenny asks, confused. If Kevin has been feeding his dog, then that means… "How the fuck long have I been gone? What day is it? What _month_ is it?"

Kevin looks at Kenny like he's seeing a ghost, like he remembers that he watched Kenny bleed out in Butters' lap in the rearview mirror. But he wouldn't remember – he just asked Kenny where he's been. Kenny was in Heaven, this time. That doesn't come around too often, though he figures that he redeemed himself by taking a bullet for Butters. Kevin swallows the lump in his throat and says, "It's – what the hell happened to you, man?"

"Out with it, Stoley," complains Kenny.

"It's May. May twenty second," Kevin says, "But seriously, what happened? Where did they take you after they took you out of the theatre? The police found them all shot and killed in this old paper factory like forty five minutes out of here, but they never found you. Did you escape? Holy shit! You're alive. Oh, my God."

"May twenty second?" Kenny weakly demands. He ignores the latter half of Kevin's interrogation and throws himself out of bed, only once having to lean himself against the wall to settle his senses. He tosses his closet open, relieved to find his tux for Karen's wedding tucked neatly inside on a hanger, right where he left it. He lays it out on his bed, running a tester hand through his hair – not too greasy. He'll be fine.

"What time is it?" he asks Kevin.

"Like noon?" Kevin says, flipping out his cellphone, "Oh, shit. I have to get dressed too – shit, you've gotta call your sister. She's been in tears for the last month, man."

By some grace of God, Kenny has been sent back to Earth just in the nick of fucking time for his baby sister's wedding. He would never, ever be able to live with himself if he'd missed it. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

"Can you give us a lift, man?" Kenny asks desperately, "I'll call her. Just, can you do me a solid?"

"Yeah, man, no problem," Kevin says, "Look, I just want to thank you for what you did back at the theatre. I was so fucking scared we were gonna die, and you just like, _went_ with them. So, thanks."

"You're welcome," Kenny says tartly. He pulls a pair of clean boxers over his hips. Man, he's so skinny. He needs have Butters cook for him again. He'll put on some extra pounds in no time.

Kevin dismisses himself to get in his groomsman's getup. He says, "I'll wait for you downstairs, man."

Oh, fuck, Butters. Butters would have had a nightmare about Kenny's death. Kenny shuffles around his room, searching for his cellphone. He finds it in the drawer of his bedside table, dead. With the frustrated growl, he hunts for the charger, which ends up being on his kitchen counter, right where he'd last charged his phone – two fucking months ago. He plugs his phone in and taps his foot angrily.

When Esther sees him, she bounds over to him and nuzzles his leg, slobbering all over him as Kenny frantically dials his little sister's phone number.

"_Hello_?" her voice shakes with her answer. Guilt rains over Kenny, even though there isn't anything that he could have done to be brought back sooner. Time is so strange after you die. It isn't even there, really. Especially if you're enjoying yourself in a sea of comic books and blues records in Heaven.

"Hey, it's me. I'm gonna be there, Karen. I promise," Kenny says.

"_Oh my God. Kenny – I – shit. I'm ruining my makeup," _Karen sniffles and pauses to rake in a trembling breath, "_I love you. I was so worried. Oh my God. I thought you were dead ._"

Kenny resists the temptation to tell her that he was, in fact, dead for the past two months and says instead, "It's a long story. I don't wanna ruin your day with it, sweetheart. I love you too. I'm getting dressed right now." Actually, he's standing in his kitchen in his underwear and parka, giving his pitbull a scratch behind the ears, feeling relieved that somebody thought to feed her while he was dead. Thank Christ for Kevin Stoley.

"_I…_" Karen, begins, but she doesn't sound as though she can think of what else to say. She sighs softly and sniffles again before saying, "_I love you, okay? Fuck. I'm so relieved. I can't wait to see you._"

"You and me both, sweetheart," Kenny smiles against his cell.

"_I've got to go. I'm getting my hair done. I wish I could talk forever. I was so scared, you asshole,_" Karen expresses.

"If we talk forever, I'm not gonna be able to get my penguin suit on."

"_Fuck, you're right._"

"It's okay, sweetheart. You can hang up. I'll see you in a couple hours."

"_I know. Okay. I'm going now_," she says, but she doesn't hang up the phone. Kenny chest aches a little at this, knowing how worried she must have been. He feels like a dick, even though he knows that this wasn't his fault and that he couldn't help the leap in time on Earth.

"I love you, and so I'll hang up for you," Kenny says, and before Karen can protest, he clicks the 'end' button on his phone.

He retreats back to his bedroom, giving himself a quick smell-check before streaking deodorant underneath his arms, and spraying himself with the bottle of expensive cologne that belongs to Butters – the guy didn't use it often, but when Kenny had said that he kind of liked the smell, Butters let out an "Aw, Jeez" and wore it more often for Kenny's benefit. Kenny hopes that his earthy, after-resurrection smell is properly masked, but one never knows. Still, he doesn't have time for a shower before whisking himself away to Denver.

Kenny inspects the clothes for any signs of dog hair or wrinkles, and, relieved to find not a thread out of place, pulls the getup on. He still feels ridiculous, but he thinks that the feeling may be born from that he used to wearing either much less and appropriate clothing, or shabbier, trashier clothing. He hasn't worn a suit since – well, since he was a kid. He used to have to wear this powder blue suit that belonged to his dad when he was little.

Kenny grabs his phone and tucks it into the pocket of his pressed pants, squeezing his feet into the shiny new dress shoes that Karen bought for him in Denver. He hasn't worn them since he tried them on, and so he's certain that he'll have blisters by the end of the day. But then, he'll do anything for his younger sister. Even blisters. Even riding in a car with Kevin Stoley.

A thought strikes Kenny as he's pounding down the building's stairs. Who the fuck was supposed to walk Karen down the aisle if he hadn't shown? The very idea gives him chills down his spine, wondering if she called their brother or father out of desperation, when Kenny knows very well that Karen would be happy never to have anything to do with either of them for the rest of her life.

Stoley is waiting for Kenny in a similar getup (green waistcoat, pink bowtie), sitting in his car with his fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel. Kenny jumps into the passenger's seat. Upon noticing the box in the backseat neatly wrapped with red paper and topped with a golden-yellow bow, Kenny swears, "Ah, shit. I didn't have fucking time to get a gift."

"I'm sure that they'll forgive you, man," Kevin says.

Kenny doesn't know what to say to that, because of course Karen doesn't give a shit whether or not Kenny purchased her and Clyde a wedding present. It's just that _he_ cares.

Also, he's still trying to get over the fucking fact that Karen is marrying Clyde fucking Donovan. Maybe Kenny would be used to it by now if he'd had the extra two months to let it settle in. Then again, maybe not.

Kenny falls asleep on the drive down to Denver, being that after coming back from the dead, he always feels exhausted and a little sick to his stomach. He doesn't have time to recuperate today, and so he'll have to settle for a nap in Kevin Stoley's piece-of-shit vehicle.

He dreams, even though Kenny tends not to. The dream is at first pleasant, a vision of being with Butters before all the shit that happened went down. It's just them in bed together. They're not fucking around, though they did just finish doing so. He remembers this day. They just laid together, and Butters humored Kenny by reading a superhero comic with him, his favorite issue of The Amazing Spiderman. Kenny thinks that maybe Butters just liked seeing Kenny finally happy about something. He'd told Kenny that maybe he was meant to be an artist, the way that he kept yapping about the perspective in the panels and how damned good it was.

But the dream changes in a flash. Kenny isn't in his own dream anymore; he's outside of it, looking in. It's like a snow globe. Kenny feels like he's pressing himself up against the glass, but he can't get any closer to the ceramic scene inside – which happens to Butters, alone, and red-eyed. He looks like more of a wreck than Kenny has ever seen anybody, and it drives up a plethora of vile feelings in his gut, stirring up guilt and shame and loneliness and the desire to fucking _help him_.

Kenny bangs on the glass, but Butters can't hear him, no matter how loudly he shouts, "Baby, it's fine. I'm here! _I swear I'm here._" It's as if Kenny doesn't exist.

"Wake up, man."

Kenny jolts out of it. They're at a red stoplight, and Kevin is shaking Kenny's shoulder. He exhales when he sees that Kenny's awake, and remarks, "You were freaking me the fuck out, dude."

Kenny rubs at his eyes and mutters an apology. They're off of the highway, which must mean that they're close. He's unfortunately not familiar with the city, and from the looks of the GPS application open on Kevin's cellphone, neither is he. They're small town kids, really. Denver is a small city, but a city nonetheless, and navigating through it is not only a pain in the ass but mildly terrifying. City people do the weirdest shit – like jumping out into the street to cross it whenever there's an opportunity, instead of waiting their damn turn.

Despite the plummeting of his dream, Kenny feels better than he did when he first buckled himself into Stoley's car. His head is clearer, for which he is glad. He doesn't want to remember Karen's wedding as a day when he felt sick and stiff and dizzy.

Kevin pulls into a small parking lot within the park that the wedding is going to be in. Neither Clyde nor Karen are particularly religious, even having both been raised in religious households. Even if Clyde had wanted a church wedding, Kenny can guarantee that he wouldn't have won that fight in the long run – Karen has wanted an outdoor wedding since she was just a little thing. Even though Kenny was a disinterested teenager when she started to bring her ideas of a perfect wedding up to him, he listened, because he didn't think that anybody else around would. Maybe if their mom wasn't always so exhausted from working for the rest of them, she'd have listened to Karen's dramatic wedding ideas. But that hadn't happened, and so Karen would tell Kenny instead, when they were wrapped up in the covers of his bed together to keep the cold at bay.

Kenny hopes that she got everything she wanted. He knows that isn't possible entirely – he was gone for her final dress fitting, an event that Karen had told him she expected him to attend.

"I hope she got that nice dress she wanted," Kenny mentions absently, as Kevin ducks into the backseat to stash the present out of sight.

"Huh?" Kevin expresses.

"She wanted a princess dress," Kenny clarifies, voice a little far-off. He sees everybody in the distance, chairs all set up, with people in their formal wear lounging around. His heart lurches and he almost feels as if he's going to throw up, even though he just started to feel better. He's nervous, he realizes. This is…huge. It's his baby sister, for fuck's sake.

"Um," Kevin eyes Kenny and asks, "How do you like, know that? Isn't that kind of a…bridesmaid thing to know, or something?"

Kenny rolls his eyes, but doesn't respond. They're here. They're here at his little sister's wedding. This is the kind of day that crosses your mind over the years as something that is far away, something that can't possibly happen, because in your eyes, your sister is still the seven-year-old telling her older brother that she wants a "wooshy, sparkly wedding dress." You never think to yourself, _one day, this seven year old will be wearing a wedding gown. _It's a dream. Like how she also wanted to be a firefighting princess. But no – no, it isn't actually a dream, because it's happening. It's happening right now. It doesn't seem possible, but it is, and makes Kenny about scared enough to piss himself.

He and Kevin traipse back to the building beside the sea of chairs adorned with pink and green bows, away from the latticed archway, decorated with ribbons and flowers. It's beautiful, really, and in typical Coloradan form, there is hardly a wisp of cloud in the sky.

Inside, it is nothing short of chaos. Women in pink dresses are running in all directions, and groomsmen in their fruit wedding gear are either cowering on the decorative furniture, or begrudgingly helping run errands to make certain that their 'bro' has an appropriately perfect wedding day. When Kevin and Kenny are spotted, Ruby dashes clumsily over to them. Kenny catches her shoulder with a single hand when she trips over her own feet.

She explains, "Dude, I fucking hate heels, I swear to God. Kevin, find Craig. He's in charge of making sure nobody else fucks up – somewhere off in that direction. And _you,_" she grips Kenny by the collar of his suit coat, "Karen is that way. The room with the pink bow on the door." Ruby glares up at Kenny like he's destined to fuck up everything, and points him in the opposite direction.

Kenny walks swiftly, a combination of nerves and joy working in his stomach. He follows Ruby's direction. He has to pause when his hand hits the doorknob below on ostentatious pink bow, breathing deep before he gives a light knock and heads in.

His stomach about drops to his feet.

Karen looks beautiful. He knew that she would, of course – even though he always thinks that she's beautiful. It's just moment like these, seeing your baby sister dolled up in a white gown, that reminds a man that his sister isn't seven years old anymore. She's a full-grown woman. She's also wearing the dress that Kenny swears she always fantasized about, with a huge, fluffy skirt and fitted bodice.

Their mom is there, wearing a celery green dress to match the attire of the wedding party. She's wiping a smudge below Karen's lower lip with her thumb. Neither women are the first to spot Kenny's entrance, however.

"Ken!" exclaims Butters, and Kenny finds himself engulfed in his embrace.

Holy shit. Butters is in his formal uniform, suited in navy and gold. Medals and honors adorn his breast. He looks – well, _official. _Important.

"Kenny, you're here," Karen's hand flies up to her mouth, and Carol slaps it back down.

"You're gonna ruin your makeup again cryin' over your stupid brother," Carol scolds.

Kenny rolls his eyes and rushes forward to yank Karen into a hug. He lifts her up, squeezing her tighter to him than he ever has before. He kisses the top of her forehead, probably messing up some sort of special facial and giving exactly zero fucks. He says, "I told you I'd be here, sweetheart."

"What _happened_?" Karen demands, when Kenny sets her back onto her feet.

Kenny gives an awkward laugh and rubs the back of his neck. He offers up a sheepish smile to his sister and explains, "It's kind of a story for another day. I don't want to be fucking up the festivities and all that shit."

"Kenneth, you watch your mouth," chides Carol, cuffing him on his arm, "It's an important damn day, you don't go around cursin' like a fuckin' sailor."

"Mom," Karen says pointedly.

"Oh, shit," Carol says, coloring a little.

Kenny can't help but snicker, which earns him another punch. He's happy, though, to know that even if this is a special day, his family is still the same as always. They're not going to pretend to be anything but McCormicks (Though it does look like a stylist tried his or her damndest to disguise the fact that his mother still sports a mullet).

Butters, meanwhile, politely stands back against the wall of the room, holding his arms behind his back, watching the events unfold. Kenny tosses him appreciative smile, and he smiles back, giving a little wave.

He stands there for the entire grooming process, even as Kenny and Carol help place Karen's veil as precisely as possible, so as not to fuck up her expensive-looking and bedazzled coiffure.

It's only when they're heading toward the lobby of the building to ready themselves for the procession that Butters starts heading out to take a seat. Kenny detaches himself from Karen's side to stop Butters with a hand on the shoulder of his uniform. Butters turns back and gives Kenny a wobbly smile – which Kenny doesn't like. Kenny slides a glance back at the wedding party, most of whom seem to be pretending that they're not staring at him and Butters. He decides he doesn't care what they think, seizes Butters by the back of the head while making sure not to agitate the cap on his head, and tugs him up into a kiss. Not just a peck – a full-blown, deep kiss. He wants every person to know that he fucking loves Butters Stotch, and he doesn't give a shit what they think about it.

Butters makes a little whimpering noise and an instant later, tries to stifle it. But he kisses Kenny back, yanking him close enough that Butters' medals press into Kenny's chest.

When Butters pulls away, he's grinning wider, though still a little sadly. Kenny wonders if he's done anything wrong – other than disappearing for two months, that is. Is Butters pissed at him for that? Because that would fucking suck.

Butters squeezes Kenny's hand in his gloved fist and says lowly enough that the onlookers won't be able to hear them, "We'll talk during the reception, okay?"

Kenny doesn't like the sound of that, but he answers with a serious nod, "Yeah."

Butters releases him, then, and heads outside to take his seat among the other guests.

Kenny retreats back to stand beside his sister. She beams up at him and says pointedly, "Last time we talked about him, you said you 'thought you might like him.'" Everybody else is staring openly at Kenny, his mother in particular. He feels like he should tell her not to be shocked – his parents did catch him with a dick in his mouth and kick him out of the house, after all. But then, maybe she's more surprised by the way in which he and Butters kissed. Kenny may not like the "let's talk" suggestion, but he knows that people that merely 'like' each other don't kiss each other like he and Butters just did.

Kenny shakes his head and replies, "I wasn't in love with him yet, give me a break."

Outside, they hear the music begin. The flower girls – Clyde's very young cousins – head outside with their baskets of petals, seeming incredibly proud of their appointed position in the wedding.

The bridesmaids and groomsmen follow in pairs – Craig and his sister, Token and Kenny and Karen's old foster sister, Melissa, Jason and Flora. Carol comes after them, looking the most elegant that Kenny has seen in years.

Then it's their turn. Kenny laces his arm in Karen's and gives her a final squeeze. He thinks that he's more nervous than she is. She looks confident, and determined. Kenny probably looks exactly as he feels, like he's about to give up one of the most important people in his life to a terrible thing – _growing up. _

She murmurs, "Chill out," just as they exit outside.

It's a warm, ideal day to have an outdoor wedding. Kenny likes to think that this is God cutting him a break, or something like that. They walk slowly down the runner darting between sections of chairs. At the end of the aisle, Clyde's parents stand behind him, and Carol stands beside them. Kenny has to admit that Clyde looks pretty fucking good in his fancy-ass getup.

Clyde's eyes soften and his mouth drops open when he sees Karen. Kenny can't deny that he sees the same feeling he has for Butters in Clyde's face when Kenny and Karen pull up to the front. Kenny backs up and stands beside his mom, who is smiling in a strange, fond way that Kenny doesn't know that he's ever seen on her face before. He's even further surprised when Carol slips her hand into his and squeezes. They share a similar look – Kenny gets it. He and his mama raised this girl. They were the ones that had her back over the years. They should have realized it sooner, perhaps, that Karen is a grown woman and she's possibly stronger than Kenny and Carol put together.

Clyde and Karen read each other their handwritten vows. Karen's is more eloquent than Clyde's, but they are equally heartfelt. When they seal the vows with a short, hard kiss, Kenny's chest tightens.

His baby sister is somebody's wife. An odd, tangled-up feeling ignites and wraps itself around Kenny as he watches Karen and Clyde retreat back into the building for the reception – married, now. Kenny lets himself hug his mom, because why the fuck not. Weddings make people feel all sentimental and shit, and he's in no way excluded from that phenomenon. He doesn't realize that Carol is crying until she sniffles wetly into his neck.

Kenny pats her on the shoulder and soothes, "It's alright, mama."

"No, it ain't. My baby's all grown up and shit," Carol whines.

"She was grown up before this," Kenny says.

Carol nods dumbly and clings onto Kenny's arm as he follows the stragglers retreating inside to the reception room.

The room is beautifully decorated in green and pink. Whoever is behind it did an excellent job. He can tell from the way that Karen's eyes are sparkling at the scene that she loves it maybe even more than she thought that she would.

Good. She deserves it.

They slog through the toasts. Many are heartfelt, and some are incredibly awkward (mainly Craig's), but all of them are long. Kenny didn't prepare a toast or a speech of any kind, but Karen asks him to speak anyway. He stumbles over wordy mumbling about loving his sister and how Clyde had better treat her right (or else).

Kenny will admit to some relief when they all eat and don't have to speak to each other anymore. The other wedding guests still see him as That McCormick Boy, even though that part of his life is officially over. He doesn't know what he's going to do now that he's done with Polly, now that he's done with leather and poles and illegal sex with older men.

He stares at Butters throughout the entire meal, where he sits with Tweek and Stan and Wendy. Christopher catches Kenny looking and waves enthusiastically. Kenny waves back, tipping back champagne and praying to avoid any awkward conversation. All Kenny wants is for everything to okay between the two of them, and he's admittedly confused on that front. He thinks that Butters is upset with him.

But when the first dance comes around, and Karen and Clyde take the dance floor, Butters stands and comes to the wedding party's table. He bows his head slightly and asks Kenny if he wants to dance. Kenny agrees. He can feel the eyes of everybody, and he isn't certain whether they're looking at the happy newlyweds, or Kenny and Butters, swaying slowly and smiling warily at each other.

The music comes to a close, and Kenny is forced to mingle once again. He finds himself retreating further and further into the corner, where Tweek is standing by himself, a glass of champagne clutched in his grip. He's staring at Craig, who is speaking to his sister with the same bored and slightly irritated expression that he's always worn.

"Hey man, you okay?" asks Kenny.

Tweek's lips lift up in a fey little half-smile. He answers, "You know what? I'm f-fine."

"What happened?" ventures Kenny. He isn't sure that he wants to know, mainly because he finds Tweek's calm eerie and unsettling.

"He's moved on to bigger and better things," Tweek explains. He sips at his champagne, "He said he was afraid to tell me because he thought that I'd go crazy."

"Oh, fuck –" starts Kenny, but Tweek interrupts.

"But you know what, man? I think I k-knew it already. I just wanted him to say it. Jesus, how hard is it? But Craig never liked confrontation. He t-thought I was fucking nuts. And I guess I sort of am, but that d-doesn't change the fact that he's a total d-dick that can't just say what's on his mind."

Kenny is stunned into silence. He struggles to think of something to say, and settles on raising his glass, clinking it against Tweek's, and remarking, "Damn."

"I've been seeing somebody else since Christmas anyway, man."

"Yeah?" Kenny lifts a brow.

"I kind of thought it was just sex, but he started to call me sometimes, you know. Just to talk and shit," Tweek returns.

"What's his name?"

Tweek smirks, "Kyle."

"Kyle? Where'd you meet him?"

"Man, if you want to get technical, I met Kyle in preschool," Tweek says slyly.

"Kyle _Broflovski_?" Kenny says, disbelieving, "You're bullshitting me, dude."

"Christ, no. He's way more interesting in the sack than Craig, just for the record," Tweek answers.

"Sick, dude. I don't want to know that," Kenny makes an exaggerated gagging noise in his throat and Tweek cackles, looking pleased with himself. Tweek does enjoy putting people off, Kenny supposes – at least, he did back when he was happier. It's nice to see a little of Tweek before he became lonely, lost Tweek.

Kenny is thankfully rescued by Butters, who approaches Kenny with _that look_, the one that says that they have to 'talk' now. Butters whisks Kenny out of the reception room and into the men's restroom.

When the bathroom is confirmed to be empty, Butters yanks Kenny into his arms and crushes their mouths together. He squeezes Kenny so tightly that he can hardly breathe. When Kenny is released, he gasps out, "What was that for?"

Butter says, "I thought you were dead."

"Ah, I'm fine, dude. Seriously –"

"No, you don't understand. I'm so fuckin' confused, Ken. You – you – you died in my arms. You got shot. Nobody else remembers anything. I keep askin' around, and Bebe thought I was fuckin' off my rocker. But I swear I didn't just dream it, darlin'. I could swear that you jumped right in front of me and saved my life," Butters starts to pace. He sounds like he might cry, and God, he sounds lost. He speaks like he doesn't think that Kenny will believe him, even though he knows that he's telling nothing but the truth.

Kenny, meanwhile, has been struck silent.

"You remember?" he finally says hoarsely.

"Whaddya mean 'do I remember?' I'm crazy, right?" Butters looks desperate for somebody to explain to him what the hell is going on, but he's got the wrong explanation in his head as the one that's right.

Kenny shakes his head. He says, "I die all the time, Butters."

"You – but how?"

Kenny pulls himself up onto the counter. He replies, "I dunno, baby. I've been dying since I was little. I always come back. That's why I said it would be fine when I was dying in your lap. See? It's fine."

Butters stares. He says, "I don't understand."

"I can't die," Kenny says simply, "Well, I mean, I can. I just don't stay dead. All those dreams you were having – those deaths happened."

Butters looks horrified. His voice cracks and goes high when he asks, "What about…what about all those suicides I dreamed about after Christmas?"

Kenny feels like he's been kicked in the chest. He avoids Butters' imploring eyes and answers, "They all happened, yeah."

Butters' brows sweep together. This seems to be the opposite of what he wanted to hear. He looks like he's about to cry, and he stammers out, "But – But why?"

"'Cause it was easier, dude," Kenny shrugs, "I get a new body when I come back, so if I get fucked up, I just kill myself to get a new body. And I mean…I was – I was in a bad place, man. I thought – fuck, I didn't know what I thought. I guess I thought that I'd fucked up my only shot with you."

"I'd probably always forgive you," Butters softly tells Kenny. He reaches forward with his gloved hand and runs his fingers through Kenny's hair, tucking a lock behind Kenny's ear, "You really can't die?"

Kenny shakes his head and confirms, "I can't die."

"I love you," Butters tells him so quietly that Kenny can barely hear him.

Kenny pulls Butters forward between his legs and applies a kiss to his lips. They wrap their tongues together, kissing each other until they can't breathe anymore. When they break apart, panting, Kenny says, "I love you, too."

They kiss again, leaning their foreheads together, when Butters asks, "You wanna get outta here?"

"And go where?"

"I don't care," Butters says, "we can go anywhere."

Kenny grins and they kiss again. Kenny agrees, "Yeah, fuck it. Let's get out of here."

They sneak out the back door and cross the park, laughing and pulling into each other into sloppy kisses. Together, they climb onto Butters' motorcycle. Kenny wraps his arms around Butters' waist and leans his head against Butters' back.

Butters revs the bike, and like that, they're out. They pull away from the park, away from the city –

Away.

Away – together.

_Fin_

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you so so much to my reviewers. You guys really encouraged me throughout writing this fic: Lying Honesty, namelessJane, desperate/Mysterion, sadpeople56, lilykinz200, Mattylovin, Ciccialine, Jenny2727, FlyAwayMax, Kuutamolla, mallorymichael, KirstenTheDestroyer, MariePierre, TheAwesome15, Wendlekins, prettyoddrydon, Chasing Rabbits, and Mortal Stalking.**

**I'm probably going to take a short break from posting on here, maybe one or two weeks. I'm going to be working on a Style/Bendy fic for the SP Big Bang, but I'll more than likely start posting my new Creek fic at the same time as I'm writing my Big Bang project. This means updates will probably be initially slow, but they'll speed up after the first few chapters. **


End file.
